


Diamond in the Rough

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fairy Tale Parody, Getting Together, Kid OC - Freeform, LoMy, M/M, Multi, Smut, The Long-Nosed Princess, Threesome toward the end, m/m slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:00:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Remy visits his betrothed unwillingly when his parents arrange a marriage. But there’s more to Logan than meets the eye…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This is based on “The Long-Nosed Princess,” one of my favorite fairy tales when I was a kid. I was in the mood to write something silly. I know someone will think I’m demented for giving a story like this the slashy treatment, but then did I ever say I was sane?

The whine of fiddles and the stamping of feet nearly drowned out Bobby’s boast.

“You’re done. Everyone knows you’re done.”

“Ya think, huh?”

Wickedness gleamed in those hazel eyes before he threw back the shot. His throat worked it down in a noisy gulp, and he wiped the stray droplet from his chin with the back of his fist.

“Play me something with a little pizzazz in it,” he barked to the quartet in the darkened corner of the tavern. Bobby threw up his hands in disbelief. His smile held disgust.

“You’ll fall on your ass! Five coins says he will!” He beckoned to his friends for support.

“You already owe me five coins,” Hank muttered, but he slid the pence into the center of the table. Warren ante’d up beside him as he lazed beside him, booted feet propped up on the neighboring table. He sipped his tankard of ale and stared blearily up at Bobby. His own coins clinked next to Hank’s.

“Surrender, already. Give it up, pup.”

Before Bobby could retort, the quartet raised their instruments and fired off a rollicking, quick tune. The denizens of the tiny pub clapped their hands, already sore from such abuse over the previous two hours. 

And he was up again.

His partner giggled for him as he looped one burly arm around her corseted waist and swung her up on her feet. Her friends looked on jealously as he spun her into a jig. It was a stamping dance, not meant for ladies and gentlemen but perfectly suited to this crowd.

Her heart thundered as he pinned her with a wolfish smile. The whiskey he drank made his breath hot as he steamed her temple.

“Ya look like a woman who likes ta dance,” he husked. She couldn’t stop giggling, but her stomach flipped. He was holding her entirely too close, in front of too many people, but she was having too fine a time to object. He spun her, then led her back the other way, staying too surefooted for a man who’d drunk so much over so short a time.

Bobby cursed, smacking the table with his fist. “Damn him! Damn his eyes! AGAIN! He did it AGAIN!” Hank crowed, turning to clap Warren on the back so hard he choked on his ale.

“What’d I tell you?”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Warren muttered. “And that’s ten coins you owe Hank now.”

“Shit!”

Logan and his partner stamped and whirled over the floor, shameless and with abandon. Bobby shook his head. How on earth did he do it? No matter what anyone threw at him, Logan just shook it off! He sighed and scrubbed his palm over his face as Logan gave his partner a jaunty bow and kissed her hand. His lips were supple and hot against her skin, and a hectic flush spread over her cheeks. 

It was sickening to watch. Logan was cavalier about the effect he had on women and how appealing they found him. Men around him clapped him roughly and shook his hand, admiring his devil-may-care tendencies and nerve. He was a man’s man, in more ways then they knew.

His appearance was striking, rather than handsome. He lived in rough work clothes, dressing like the peasants of his kingdom. He had no patience for court and its posturing. His parents despaired of civilizing him, but there was nothing they could do. He was their only son; despite how much he exhausted them with his antics, they adored him.

Victor champed at the bit at the door, arms folded across his broad chest. He was gigantic, easily filling the door and dwarfing everyone else in the tavern by at least a head. He watched Logan in amusement as he made his goodbyes to every woman in the vicinity. Ignoring propriety, they let him.

He kissed the last blushing miss, and she touched her lips in wonder, looking pleasantly dazed. “Please say you’ll come again tomorrow, Logan!”

“Please, please, please!”

“You can’t go now, you just got here!”

“You haven’t danced with me yet!”

“Good, sweet night ta all of ya,” he rumbled. He stopped at Bobby’s table and smirked. “Gonna bring more coin with ya tomorrow night?”

“Bastard,” Bobby grunted sourly as he lifted his own whisky to his lips. Logan was too quick, however. “HEY!”

“Dancin’s thirsty work,” he shrugged, downing the drink and slamming it back down. He nodded to Hank. “Ten pence?”

“Aye.”

“Then ya can pay me back tomorrow,” Logan told Bobby.

“Castle gates’ll be closin’ soon, Highness,” Vic reminded him casually. He clapped his brass pocket watch shut. Logan shrugged, then grinned.

“I’m out. Don’t drink too much, Robert.”

“Blast your eyes,” Bobby muttered. 

“Safe ride, Logan,” Warren offered, reaching for his hand without getting up. Logan shook it firmly, repeating the gesture with Hank’s grizzled blue paw.

A chorus of disappointed cries followed him from the tavern. Victor helped him into his roan’s saddle, even though he didn’t need it. Despite Logan’s constant grumbling that he didn’t need a groom, Victor gave him the king’s money’s worth in service.

They rode back with the music drifting further and further away behind them, replaced by the sounds of wind in the trees and crickets.

“Yer havin’ too much fun with the locals,” Victor muttered. “Don’t ya ever get bored?”

“Nah. Ya kiddin’? It’s good ta stay in touch with the citizens every now an’ again, eh?”

Victor snorted. “That’s what ya call it, huh?”

“Ya could’ve joined in any time.”

“That ain’t my job.”

“Ya call this a job? Ya don’t hafta follow me around everywhere I go at the drop of a hat, bub.”

“Think I gotta clean the wax outta my ears…I think ya just told me I don’t hafta follow ya around. By definition, yer Highness, that’s exactly what a groom and royal bodyguard does, last time I was in school.”

“Ya got kicked outta school fer gettin’ too familiar with the girls in the cloak room.”

“Naw. I got kicked out fer gettin’ caught.” Victor sighed as he listened to Logan whistling a tune and wrinkled his nose at the strong stench of whisky. “Ya’ve got an early day tomorrow and ya stay out til all hours dancin’ jigs?”

“Gotta enjoy my last days as a free man.”

“Yer a prince. That don’t make ya a free man, bub.” No one else dared to be so familiar in his court. Victor was nothing if not frank.

But Logan wasn’t like any other prince.

They rode through the thicket; lanterns and torches glowed in the darkness from the cottages they passed, lighting the way. The windows of those homes were dark, satisfying Logan that his countrymen were safe and at rest for the night. Different scents mingled in the air, some pleasant, some making him wrinkle his nose.

“Widow Jones asked for an extension on her taxes again this month.”

“Does anyone know why?” Logan inquired.

“Old man died. Drowned in the river when they were fishing a few weeks ago.”

“So why wasn’t I told?” Logan made a noise of disgust. “She’s a widow. She needs ta eat. Her taxes can wait til she either moves back in with family or someone weds her again.”

“That’s what I figured,” Vic shrugged, then nodded in agreement. “Would you like to send some men to the Jones cottage in the meantime to make repairs? She has a leaky roof.”

“I’ll take some myself tomorrow,” Logan said.

“Nay. Don’t get ahead of yerself, Highness.”

“Don’t remember askin’ ya fer permission.”

“Aye. Ya didn’t. But ya have plans tomorrow that involve meetin’ yer betrothed.” Logan made a face as he remembered the thing he’d been dreading for weeks.

“Shit.”

 

*

The footmen in the royal stable greeted him pleasantly, still drowsy from interrupted sleep. They were familiar with Logan’s late nights but indulged him the same way they had when he was a boy. They’d expected him to have married by now. Logan was one of the most eligible bachelors among their neighboring lands, but at forty, he was also one of the oldest princes. His mother bemoaned her lack of grandchildren, and his father was tired of it, insisting on heirs under threat of banishment.

But the king and queen were more forward-thinking than their forefathers, and they had an eye on their only son’s happiness more than the legacy of their kingdom. They sent out messages by couriers on horseback to the neighboring palaces in their search for an eligible consort. Many replies returned, resulting in numerous invitations to court, royal balls and country gatherings and festivals so that Prince Logan might meet his future queen.

But every effort failed miserably.

Logan was who he was. He wouldn’t pretend to be anything else. He offended too many sensibilities with his bluntness and off-color humor, as well as his complete lack of artifice. Princesses thought he was a philistine barbarian; but the townswomen of Logan’s kingdom adored his big heart and rakish charm. He was a guardian of widows and orphans, helping with barn raisings and plantings every spring.

He was quick-witted and hardworking, and he had little patience for idleness or fools. Logan adored the hunt, often running his horse until it was lathered. His mother nearly swooned every time he returned home with blood flecking his jerkin and mud on his leather boots, looking haggard and wild-eyed as he came with his men through the gates carrying his kills trussed up on a spit. He was handy with a bow and arrow, sword, sling and hunting falcon. Victor’s claim that he was his bodyguard was laughable, but to his credit, he was a more than adequate companion for Logan’s jaunts, taking just as much lusty enjoyment from violence when it arose.

Logan and Victor crept into the castle through the kitchen. Victor filched a bit of leftover roast from a copper platter, licking the juices from his fingers.

“There you are,” barked a familiar baritone. Logan winced, then turned to face his father’s wrath. “Nice of you to return so early, son.” Jonathan shook his head at his son’s appearance. “You smell like a distillery.”

“Evenin’, Father.”

“Your Highness.” Victor bowed low and backed out of the room. He shot Logan a wink on his way out. Logan scowled, then sighed. Vic’s look seemed to say Better you than me.

“I don’t know what I pay that heathen for,” Jonathan began,” if he slinks back in here looking as guilty as you do. Why, James? Do you enjoy keeping your mother and I up late, worrying about your return?”

“I’m not a boy anymore, Father,” he said softly.

“No. You’re not a boy!” he snapped. “You’re a forty-year-old bachelor with dwindling prospects who needs to take a wife and have a son and give me an heir!” His father was slight of build and growing more wizened with advanced age, and his features were more patrician than his son’s, but they had the same eyes that seemed to stare right through all who saw them. “Enough of this carousing, son! I won’t have it! You’re a prince, but no one would know it by the company you keep! And would it kill you to dress like a gentleman instead of a beggar or common minstrel?”

“You sound like Mother, now.”

“She’s nearly given up on trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” Jonathan continued, throwing up his hands. “Your mother civilized ME, once upon a time, and I’m a better man for it!”

“I ain’t sayin’ that ya ain’t,” Logan agreed as he sat down and helped himself to a drink from the milk jug. He felt a sharp slap upside the back of his head. “OW!”

“Don’t act so flippant,” his father chided him, planting his fists on his hips. “Tomorrow I want to see you make some effort, son. I’m running out of options with you. You could be a good catch if you tried, but you refuse to try. I’ve paraded more women in front of you then I can count –“

“Two hundred and thirteen,” Logan quipped, rubbing the back of his head. It smarted. He plucked a tidbit of roast from the platter and popped it into his mouth.

“And I’ve decided to take a different tack.”

“What? No cotillions? Balls? Talent shows? Juggling acts? Spring harvest festivals?”

“It’s autumn,” his father said blandly. “And no. I’m getting old, James. And I’m tired. I want a grandchild that I can dandle on my knee and I intend to get one.”

“Dandle?” Logan muttered.

“Don’t sass me. Go. Get to bed. Now. I want you refreshed and smart in the morning. I’ll leave you to Jean-Paul and Pietro’s tender graces at sun-up.” Logan groaned.

“Father…if ya love me, please spare me that.”

“It’s because I love you that I’m doing this. You’ve pushed my hand. Sleep well.” Jonathan bent down and kissed his son’s cheek. “I’m doing this for your own good.”


	2. Finery and Fanfare

Finery and Fanfare

Summary: It isn’t love at first sight. Far from it. It’s a disaster…

Author’s Note: Okay, I’m having fun with this. There’s something wrong with me, but I love fairy tales, and it’s fun to write an adult one where bizarre things happen in it from time to time. And a warning, Remy will start off as something of an asshole. I love writing assholes.

His father was as good as his word.

“Rise and shine, Sunshine,” Jean-Paul crowed cheerfully. Pietro drew the curtains back, letting stark sunshine pour into the room.

“Gorgeous morning,” he announced. “Make the most of it. Don’t just lie there, I’ve got your bath ready.”

“It’s too damned early. Even the birds’re still in bed,” Logan grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He obediently rolled to a sitting position, having no problem with that. Unlike his friends at the tavern, he didn’t get drunk from too much alcohol or suffer the accompanying hangovers the next day. Bobby cursed his luck but still tried time and time again to see how many drinks of whisky and ale it would take to stagger Prince James Logan of the Towering Trees.

“That’s no way to talk for a prince,” Jean-Paul scolded him as he rummaged through Logan’s trunks. “This might do,” he murmured thoughtfully, pulling out a shirt and shaking it out.

“Might do for what?”

“Meeting your betrothed,” he said.

“Pfft…might as well just meet her like this. She’ll just run shrieking away like the rest,” Logan shrugged as he rose from bed in the altogether. 

Jean-Paul silently drooled. Pietro nearly swooned, staring at him openmouthed. 

Logan’s previous prospects didn’t know what they had missed. In his daily rough garb and usual layers of dirt and grit, no one could truly see the treasure underneath. His body was a melody of muscular curves and plains, sinewy, streamlined and beautiful. His chest and limbs were matted with a soft layer of crisp, dark hair, and his skin was firm, supple and tanned. 

His manhood was flaccid, still slumbering for the time being, but there was, for lack of a better phrase, quite a bit of it, begging to be touched…stroked…used…

Jean-Paul snapped out of it. “Would you like breakfast brought up, sire?”

“Eh. Whatever. Do whatever ya want.”

“That defeats the purpose. You’re the prince, we technically have to do whatever you want,” Pietro argued with him as he continued to pull selections from the trunks. Jean-Paul beckoned to the scullery boys in the hall to bring in the tub of steaming water.

The next hour was a blur. Jean-Paul wrestled him into the tub and made generous use of the scented soap, scrubbing Logan’s thick, tangled dark hair. Logan grumbled beneath his ministrations, cursing loudly when he rinsed it and dribbled some of the foam into his eyes. 

“Unless ya wanna end up drawn an’ quartered, ya don’t wanna come near me with that again,” he warned him, rubbing his eyes. They still stung. 

“Don’t be such a baby, your Highness.” He rubbed him down with more of the soap, and this time Logan relaxed beneath his massaging hands and the stroke of the nubby washcloth. Pietro attacked his feet, buffing the callouses with a pumice stone and trimming his toenails. They were absolutely shameful. Pietro had an obsession with feet.

“Thought ya wanted me ta get outta bed. This is gonna put me ta sleep,” Logan groaned, lounging back until his head leaned against Jean-Paul’s shoulder. Jean-Paul’s nostrils flared and his eyes dilated with lust. The feel of Logan’s warm skin beneath his hands was undoing him. “Think ya already soaped my chest.” 

He ceased his fascination with Logan’s nipple. “Erm…sorry, your Highness. I believe you’re right.”

Pietro glared up at him from his task of smoothing lotion onto Logan’s feet and rubbing it in. He was taking his time with the chore and gently blew cool air between his toes, making Logan shudder.

“Shouldn’t you be getting him something to wear?” Jean-Paul accused as he ran his fingers through Logan’s hair, rubbing his scalp to dislodge any lingering dandruff. He kneaded behind his ears, loosening the knots of tension that formed there while he pondered his impending engagement.

“You were going to order his tray,” he countered.

“No. YOU were going to order his tray.” Pietro didn’t realize his hands had traveled up to Logan’s ankles. He was rubbing the pressure points and stroking the skin of Logan’s calf, making the burly prince stifle a moan of arousal.

Things were getting a tad too close for comfort…

Damn his grooms! Logan extricated his foot from Pietro’s grasp, jerking it back into the tub as he stood. His nipples were stiff little pebbles, he was erect, and he left the tub in a fit of pique. He lunged for a towel hanging on the back of his vanity chair. “Go. Food. Then clothes.” He fanned them away and rummaged in the armoire for his robe. It was a serviceable garment made of black silk, completely untrimmed by any decoration. They stared at him, dumbfounded as he donned it. “GO!”

They vamoosed in a flurry, bickering the entire way out the door.

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Artie, one of his squires as he popped his head in through the door.

“Yer askin’ the wrong person, kid,” Logan said, shaking his head. “Sheesh.”

“You gonna have another lady come t’visit?” he asked. Artie adored Logan. Legions of children followed him throughout the courtyard whenever Logan made his rounds and visited the citizens for their taxes.

“You know more than I do about that, squirt.” He reached for a bottle of cologne and tugged the boy over by the sleeve. “Here. Now ya can smell good fer the ladies, too.”

“Yuck!”

“Might change yer tune one of these days, kid.” Logan sighed, then set down the expensive glass bottle. He hated the stuff as much as Artie did, and he knew Pietro or Jean-Paul would drench him in it when they returned.

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“When you marry, will you still be able to come out and play?”

“I’ll try,” he shrugged, but Logan sat at the vanity and took the boy’s hands, squeezing them. “I’ll always try to make time for my people, even after I’ve taken a wife. That’s what a king does, son. You’re my people, but I’m still your king. I belong to all of you, not the other way around.” He beamed, then wrapped his arms around Logan’s neck.

“I hope she’s nice,” Artie said. “I didn’t like the other one.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.” Logan snorted under his breath.

“Me, either.”

It wasn’t entirely true. There had been a few that weren’t too bad, but all of them were transparent. I know I can change him once we’re married seemed to be written in their eyes once he’d spent more than five minutes in their presence, and Logan wouldn’t have it. He saw them mentally redressing him – not undressing him, which would have otherwise been acceptable – and cutting his hair, nagging him which fork to use first, or to ride in a carriage instead of on horseback.

“She has to know how to hunt,” Artie announced imperiously.

“Eh?”

“You can’t marry her if she doesn’t know how to hunt. And she has to have a little boy for us to play with.”

“Um…I think that kinda defeats the purpose of me givin’ her an heir, kiddo.”

“So? Then you two have to have a little boy after you get married.”

“That’s the plan, Art.”

“And she has to like whisky, like you do,” he continued. Logan snorted, glad he wasn’t drinking anything at the time, or he would have choked. 

“What else do we hafta add ta the list?”

“Well, she has to have long brown hair. Or red,” he decided.

“Hm. Sounds good.”

“And nice teeth. She has to have teeth,” he said.

Inside, Logan was dying, craving the chance to laugh unhindered, but he didn’t want to hurt his little friend’s feelings. Still, the child had a point. Dentistry wasn’t a luxury everyone in the kingdom could afford.

“So I need a whisky-drinkin’ woman with nice long hair, nice teeth, who’ll give me a nice little son to play ball with and go huntin’ with me?”

“Right.”

“Right. I’ll get right on that.”

“I wish she’d get here already,” he grumbled, kicking the edge of the bed with his boot.

“Don’t do that. Be nice ta the furniture.”

“Okay. I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Then he walked over and wrapped his thin arms around Logan’s neck. “I hope she’s nice.”

“Me, too.” He gave him a brief pat. “Go have breakfast.” Almost as though she had been summoned, Artie’s mother appeared at the door.

“Your Highness, have you seen…oh, there you are!” Annalee came in and herded her son out, chiding him. “You haven’t even given him a chance to get decent, Arthur!”

“Pietro an’ Jean-Paul haven’t been able ta get me decent in the ten years that they’ve been here,” Logan reminded her. “Ain’t for lack of tryin’.”

“We’ll let you get ready. Come, Arthur.”

“Awwww!” Moments after they left, Pietro and Jean-Paul came bickering back into view, burdened with his breakfast tray and morning post.

Even eating was a chore. They flapped at him and scolded him about proper forks and spoons and knives and not to guzzle but to sip. He’d no sooner removed the napkin from his lap before they pounced, cleaning away dishes in a flurry of activity.

Then they got a hold of him again and the real torture began.

“Wear this green, sire. It brings out your eyes.”

“It’s warm out. He should wear the jerkin, or the vest.”

“Unacceptable. That will make him look like nothing more than a well-dressed peasant.”

“This belt’s nice,” Jean-Paul said, fingering the thick, hand-tooled leather.

“With the green tunic, then. Not the jerkin.”

“What’s wrong with the jerkin?”

“It’s tacky.”

“It most certainly is not. YOU’RE tacky.”

“Don’t make me slap you - !”

Logan watched their argument like it was a tennis match, sighing.

“Why don’t you get busy and black his boots?”

“Do I look like the boot black?”

“Honestly?”

“Don’t answer that. I will smack you, so help me.”

Various garments were held up for inspection and comparison. Logan stood patiently as they pressed each shirt against his body, ooh’ing, aah’ing and hmm’ing at the drape and color. They grew a bit too familiar with performing the same comparisons with the trousers. Logan longed to shed the rode and crawl back into bed.

Fifteen changes and one unsatisfied erection later, Logan stood detangled, creamed, combed, buffed, polished and primped before the full-length mirror.

“Do you like it, Highness?” Jean-Paul pleaded. “D’you think a different pair of boots would be more suitable, I could –“

“No!” Logan roared. “Like hell! Don’t…touch…anything.” Jean-Paul and Pietro looked slightly hurt. Logan sighed, then softened. “I’m sorry. What I meant was…ya did a nice job. More than satisfactory.”

“Your Highness? If I may be so bold, you look stunning.” Pietro ran his hand over the sleeve of the richly embroidered tunic, sighing admiringly and straightening the cuff.

“A work of art, Highness,” Jean-Paul chimed in. He took Logan’s hand and knelt, kissing Logan’s signet. His lips lingered over his flesh for just a moment too long. Pietro copied the gesture before they left. Logan was grateful for the solitude.

Tension worked its way around his eyes and mouth in fine lines. Logan sat on the window seat, staring out at the preparations.

The one thing Logan would never admit out loud was that he was lonely. It pained Logan to remember, not only the disappointment he’d felt over each failed attempt at a betrothal, but to experience again and again, the death of hope.

He spent much of his night awake, staring into the dark as he worried about the day’s outcome. His father wanted an heir, but Logan wanted a partner. While he knew his own strengths and worth, he wanted to see those things reflected in the eyes of someone special, someone who would complete him.

He opened the window to let in the fresh morning air and herald the new day. He picked the wrong moment, however…

“HIGHNESS! Close that up, I beg of you! Don’t muss your hair with that strong breeze!”

“Let me come up and use this fine pomade, Highness, it will fix it in place and last all day!”

At that point, Logan chose to flee. 

He detoured through the rear corridor and found the door that led out to the battlements and bell tower of the castle.

“Where’s he off to?” Jubilee whispered to her friend, Paige as they scrubbed the floor.

“Dunno,” she shrugged. “But he looks awful nice, doesn’t he?” They sighed over his fine raiment and how well it fit his physique.

Logan needed to ride. He saddled his roan, Maverick, without rousing the footman at the stables.

Before anyone knew he was gone, Logan was off, haring through the woods. The enormous redwood trees that gave his kingdom its name swayed slightly in the wind. The air felt decadent blowing through his hair and against his cheeks. Jean-Paul and Pietro would surely kill him…

He had no plans to hunt. He simply craved his favorite spot and familiar company.

Roughly a mile to the north, Logan found the tiny, warm water spring that he’d discovered as a boy, waiting for him. He tethered Maverick to a sapling that stood only a foot or two taller than Logan was. 

He sat on the fallen log and removed his boots, carefully setting them aside in a pile of dead leaves. He untied the lacing at the tunic’s neck, opening it up and fanning some cool air against his throat. Much better.

Logan watched the sunlight filter through the branches and listened to birds chattering and taking wing, wondering why the rest of his day couldn’t be so uncomplicated.

He caught a familiar scent and the sounds of footpads crunching through the brush behind him. Logan didn’t turn toward the noise; he sat and stripped the bark from a long, jagged twig and waited patiently.

A cool, damp nose nudged his arm, then worked its way under it, pushing Logan to lift it and embrace the shaggy gray head. 

“Careful, now. One stain on this shirt and Jean-Paul will come back her and make me a winter cloak out of yer hide,” Logan promised, giving the old wolf a scratch behind his ears. The animal whined and licked his hand. “Beggar,” Logan chuckled, reaching into his belt pouch. He fished out a small lump of leftover fried egg that he smuggled from the breakfast table and fed it to him.

Slowly, Logan’s other forest friends joined them at the spring, each approaching him for their morning exchange of pleasantries. 

They were kin of a different sort, and the denizens of the woods respected and followed Logan as readily as his men. Even different fauna who were normally at odds and natural enemies laid aside territorial issues in Logan’s presence. A row of sparrows sat neatly along Logan’s arm as he traded bird song with them with a purse of his lips. He flung them up into the air and laughed at their flight and wild shrieks. A small red fox lay curled and dozing around his neck like a stole.

The serenity of the spring was disturbed by the racket of large carriage wheels.

“Shit,” Logan muttered. “It was nice while it lasted.

He stood and brushed himself off, gently disengaging the fox and letting her scurry into a nearby hollow tree. On his way toward Maverick, Logan gave a large, juvenile grizzly a brisk pat.

“Fishing tomorrow?” he inquired. The bear rumbled at him with a mighty yawn and nose his hand. “Tomorrow, then.”

Logan was astride Maverick and back on the winding trail before the occupants of the carriage caught sight of him. Briefly, the coachman noticed the swish of a chestnut brown tail but dismissed it.

“Wonder who’s up and about at this hour?”

“Probably beggars,” a strident baritone called out. “Miserable wretches. Even thievery is better to make a living. Even thieves have pride.”

“As you like, Highness,” the coachmen agreed cheerfully. The ride was uneventful but dreadfully dull.

The kingdom of Shade and Sweet Water was just past a deep canyon, then over the snow-capped mountains whose peaks looked like cotton candy at sundown. Prince Remy didn’t have high hopes for their smaller, more rugged neighbor to the south.

Nor for the prince that his parents had in mind, well-meaning or not.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered as he stared out at the redwoods. They rode past an enormous black bear that stood on its hind feet as though in greeting. Remy threw a crust of bread at it in scorn.

*

“Logan, they’re here!” Artie cried, pointing wildly to the ornate black carriage with bronze fittings as it roared into the courtyard. A second carriage followed, bearing the royal crest. Horsemen rode ahead of them, flying bright pennants behind them in Shade and Sweet Water’s colors.

“What a racket,” Logan agreed as he lifted the boy up onto his shoulders for a better look. The crowd was cheering and throwing rose petals over the path, crying out blessings for the bride to be and the future union they all anticipated.

“James? Make us proud,” his mother beckoned over his shoulder. She gently took his hand and kissed his cheek. Queen Eliza was small and plump, and her black hair was shot through with gray, but she was still a lovely woman with large, expressive blue eyes. “Your father and I have tried to avoid past mistakes with this choice. Sometimes, you’ll find once you’ve succeeded us that it’s smart to think outside the box…”

“Outside the box? Mother, what-“

His question was cut off by fanfare of trumpets and drums as the horsemen presented and executed a sharp formation. Stewards hurried out from the castle to assist the princess as she disembarked. A rich red velvet carpet was unrolled neatly, leading to the front gate.

“Come,” Eliza said, tugging Logan along by the sleeve. Artie’s mother made him get down, much to his disappointment.

“Aw! I wanna meet Logan’s lady!”

“That’s Prince James to you,” Annalee reminded him pleasantly before she shushed him.

The crowd continued to cheer as Logan approached his father’s side. Pietro and Jean-Paul were very thorough, ensuring that Jonathan’s clothing matched his son’s for the occasion, but his tunic was much more elaborate, embroidered in gold threads.

“Son?”

“Father?”

“Don’t mess this up.”

The crowd waited with bated breath.

Logan watched as the first carriage’s doors opened to allow a slender, slightly stooped gentlemen wearing a red tunic and black trousers to come down the steps. A coronet of silver sat upon his head, which was slightly balding. His expression was saturnine and sharp.

“His Majesty King Jean-Luc the Quick,” bellowed his footman, “and Her Majesty Queen Candra.” His wife was remarkably tall and dark-skinned, surprising Logan. He bargained the king acquired his bride from foreign lands, likely across the sea. She, too, looked to be in her middle years but she was very striking.

“What must their children look like?” Eliza wondered aloud, echoing Logan’s thoughts.

“Are there any more children in that family?”

“No. They have only the one.”

King Jonathan and Queen Eliza made their introductions with polite handshakes and perfunctory kisses. 

Jean-Luc looked Logan up and down, bold in his scrutiny. “Not very old for a prince only on his first marriage,” he remarked.

“Don’t know if this is going to even be my first marriage,” Logan said bluntly. Jean-Luc sniffed.

“Your Majesties King Jonathan and Queen Eliza, we are honored and proud to present to thee …PRINCE REMY!”

The drum roll came to an abrupt stop.

The entire courtyard was shocked into silence.

A tall, broad-shouldered young man arose from the carriage, staring out at his audience with a hint of amusement.

He proceeded up the red carpet silently, elegantly. 

Eyes that glowed red and hot as a firebrand stared at the two royal couples on the dais, nearly missing the additional figure standing slightly behind them. He made out an expensive pair of shining black, calf-length boots. What should have been the whites of those same eyes were endlessly black, gleaming like obsidian.

His skin was flawless, golden and smooth as silk. Long, chestnut brown hair flowed down his back, bound in a thick braid tied off with gold cord. He wore his kingdom’s colors, a deep cranberry red with the family crest embroidered on his tunic. His smile was bold and confident, and his teeth were straight, white as ivory.

Logan was dumbfounded, yet satisfied on some small level; he already had two of the qualities on Artie’s list.

He reached the dais and bowed low to his future in-laws, but to their surprise, there was a hint of scorn in his eyes when he straightened.

“My son? Meet your groom,” Queen Candra told him in a rich, deep alto.

She stood aside and gestured for Logan to come forward.

Logan’s pulse hadn’t returned to normal quite yet. He was still reeling from the announcement that his bride was actually a groom, and that he was Remy’s groom. Blood seemed to pound in his temples and he felt a hectic flush creep into his cheeks.

Was this what his mother meant by “thinking out of the box?”

More to the point, why was his body reacting so violently to his presence?

His scent was rugged, holding a hint of some herbal cologne mingling with his own natural aroma. Logan knew without laying a finger on him that his skin was likely hot to the touch. He had high cheekbones and a long, narrow face. 

His sensuous mouth with its deeply notched upper lip smirked.

“Wanna tell me sometin’, chere?” he drawled. It took Logan a moment to realize he wasn’t going to make a proper introduction.

“What would you like to know?”

“How is it a kingdom called Towering Trees can produce a squat, scruffy runt for its crown prince? Dis de best dat y’can do?”

Behind him, Logan’s mother swooned.


	3. Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reap what you sow…Remy deals with the outcome of his cruelty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Both of these guys might seem out of character for the time being, but remember, this is a fairy tale and alternate ‘verse. *shakes fanny, narrowly avoids spanking and runs.*

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. Logan sat upstairs in his chamber, staring into the grate and watching the flames dance. The sky outside his window was blanketed thickly with stars. The moon looked as lonely as he felt.

He knew it wouldn’t work. Shame burned him, making his dinner taste bitter.

*

“I’m sorry, my boy, I didn’t quite hear you?” King Jonathan demurred, stepping forward. “How was your journey? I trust you were comfortable?”

“Aye,” Remy offered, but he steadfastly ignored the king’s pleasantries. His gaze was still pinned on Logan, taking in Pietro and Jean-Paul’s careful efforts with his grooming. “Tried t’dress you up, but dere’s only so much silk can hide, eh, chere?”

“I don’t have anything ta hide,” Logan rumbled, narrowing his eyes. 

This young upstart dared to insult him in his own courtyard? When his father extended his hospitality?

“And I think my father asked ya a question. Ya might do well ta give him yer ears, and yer respect.”

“Desole,” Remy said, turning to Jonathan. The king looked perturbed, and Eliza’s ladies in waiting were still attempting to revive her a few feet away. 

“Does that mean yer sorry?”

“No French, chere? Oui. It means Remy’s sorry.” Logan snorted. His ego was astounding. He even talked about himself in the third person…

His irritation still warred with his attraction to his physical presence. This prince had a lilting baritone with sexy rough edges that were more prominent when he used phrases in his native tongue.

“M’sorry my parents wasted my time, but some of the blame lies at your feet, too, Majesty,” Remy sniffed. His red eyes pinned Jonathan and he sighed. “Dis won’t work.”

“My son,” Candra interjected, “a word.” She swept over regally and took her son’s arm, crooking her own through it. She took him on a brief stroll toward the gates.

“I know this is unorthodox-“

“Aye, Maman.”

“But we enjoy a good relationship with the kingdom of Towering Trees. They’ve aided us time and again through famine and blight, and they’ve helped secure our borders and waters against vagabonds and pirates. It might not seem like much, but this is a rich, thriving land full of good people. The folk here are loyal to their king.”

“But why dis union? Look at him, Maman. He’s old. He looks dried up and shop-worn.”

“That’s very unkind of you, my son.”

“M’just bein’ honest.”

“Such honesty in this instance does not become you.”

“Someone who’s stayed unmarried dis long must not’ve had many prospects. Lemme guess…I’m his last resort?”

“Remy!” She was aghast.

She knew it was a losing battle.

*

Her only son had been spoiled over the years, that much she knew, but Queen Candra still held out hope. She adored him, after all, and only wanted him to be happy.

He had already provided her with an heir, bless his heart. Remy’s young bride died in childbirth a month before her due date. Prince Etienne came crying weakly into the world and was laid upon his dying mother’s breast.

“Remy…marry.”

“Quoi?” he asked, voice trembling.

“Marry…again, my love. And…love him…” she rasped.

He held her hand until her flesh turned cold.

*

He’d grown so hard.

Remy swaggered, enjoying the crowd’s stares. His eyes enthralled and intrigued them. He possessed a charm that bore into them like sweet poison. His mother sighed.

“Prince James is rumored to be kind and intelligent. He’s very involved with his father’s rule over his people.”

“Gonna tell Remy he’s got a great personality next, Maman?”

Candra had just about had it.

“Look…enough. You’re my son, and I love you, Remy. But this family deserves an answer today. I won’t force you into this marriage-“

“Can ya even call it dat? Marriage,” Remy snorted. “Handin’ me over t’dis so-called prince as his groom? Or is Remy de bride?”

“You’d be his consort, yes. He’d be our son-in-law with all of the same privileges of a royal bride. He’d be like a second son to us,” she pronounced bluntly.

“Don’ want another daughter-in-law?”

“You haven’t made any overtures to that effect,” his mother said. “And…I was under the impression that you weren’t averse to male companions, my son.”

Remy flushed. His smile faltered.

“Maman…”

“So this union could be feasible, if you would open your mind to it.”

“Maman…”

He took her hands and squeezed them.

“I can’t.”

Queen Candra was very sober as they returned to the dais. 

“Prince Remy,” King John said gravely, “may I now announce an engagement between you and my son, Prince James Logan?”

“Nay,” Remy replied. “Not now.” He turned to Logan, eyeing him with contempt. “Not ever.”

“So be it.” Logan shrugged, then rubbed his nape thoughtfully, not caring about the careful styling of his thick hair. Remy felt a strange sense of satisfaction, seeing that tiny gesture.

He was meant to look wild. His dress and forced neatness didn’t suit him, not at all.

But then again, it wasn’t up to him, was it, what the prince of Towering Trees did with his appearance?

Logan had only one more word for him. 

“Godspeed.”

He turned on his heel and left with no further salutation.

*

News of the prince of Shade and Sweet Water’s snub at the royal court traveled far and wide. King Jean-Luc and Queen Candra remained two more days within Towering Tree’s gates before taking their reluctant leave. Jonathan and Eliza showed them lavish hospitality and gave them full access to the castle. 

Both kings enjoyed chess. They wiled away many hours in front of the fire after supper, moving the polished pieces over a gaming table inlaid with ivory and black marble.

“You’ve raised a kind son,” Jean-Luc remarked. 

“He caught that stag,” Jonathan mused, nodding to the mounted head over the fireplace. It was an impressive specimen, a rare white buck.

“Impressive.”

“He spends a great amount of time outdoors. He hasn’t much patience for matters of business in the board room, but my son listens to our people’s concerns.”

“Remy was an excellent student as a child. He loves mathematics, earth sciences, agriculture, astronomy and accounting.” They brooded over their wine. “They might have made a fine match.”

“Equal partners,” Jonathan sighed.

There was no help for it.

*

Remy dozed in the carriage, already tired of the journey home. The weather outside was more humid and sultry than it had been on their earlier ride through the woods. Clouds above were beginning to obscure the moon and stars. Remy wondered if it would rain by morning.

He called up to his coachman, Samuel.

“Want my cloak?”

“’Tis warm enough out, sire.”

“Might rain,” Remy chided him. “Smells like it.”

“I don’t smell anything yet, Highness.”

“It’s best to think ahead. No point in getting caught in the rain, non?”

“I’ll worry about it when it rains, sire.” Remy sighed, rolling his red eyes heavenward. He’d done the widow Guthrie a favor when he brought her oldest son into his employ as a second coachman. He spelled his senior man, Nate, on the long journey to let him rest. The boy meant well, but he wasn’t very bright.

Throughout his journey, Remy thought of the prince, standing in his foolish regalia. He looked like a wild animal masquerading as a man, and as a noble, at that. He was so rough-hewn…

His features were all at odds with Remy’s definition of conventional beauty. That high, square forehead with its widow’s peak was interrupted by thick, shaggy, arched brows. His nose was craggy, too sharp to even be aquiline. His skin bore no scars, but he had a hint of shadow over his firm, square jaw, as though no razor could truly tame his whiskers.

His eyes and mouth almost redeemed the rest of his face. His lips were thin and well-shaped, and his mouth was broad, promising a wide smile. But he hadn’t smiled once. Remy supposed he hadn’t given him much reason.

Those eyes…animal’s eyes. They were hazel, such a provincial color. Fine lines fanned out from the corners, announcing his age plainly. Remy was young, and he felt he deserved a young bride.

The situation was laughable. Remy only regretted that he’d traveled so far for such a disappointing outcome.

“No! NO! PLEASE! SIRE, THERE’S A-“ Sam’s voice rose to a shriek of fear and pain, then became a sickening gurgle. The entire carriage jerked, dashing Remy against its walls.

“SAM! NATE! Bloody hell??”

He no sooner got his bearings before the carriage was rammed again. Remy heard Nate cursing and struggling to his feet in the dry brush.

“What’s going on out there?”

“I’m finding the lantern, sire…NNNNNGGHH! AAAAAAAHHHHH!” Remy heard a rush of movement, followed by a sharp crack. 

“NATE!”

It was too silent.

Then, Remy heard a rush of activity in the woods around him. He peered out the window.

The trees seemed to come alive…

Remy tried to remain still. His heart was pounding. He reached for his belt, finding his small knife. It was all he had; he’d left his sword and scabbard at home, entrusting it to his son’s care as a means of comforting him in his absence. He was growing so fast.

Suddenly Remy was afraid he might not make it home to tell him how proud he was of him…

Remy needed the lantern. He heard nothing from Nate or Sam. If he could free one of the horses from the harness, he could make his way out to the main road-

The decision was taken out of his hands. What sounded like several thumps against the side of the carriage barreled along the left side, and Remy felt the entire cab rock dangerously. He clung to the window ledge, but to no avail.

The horses whinnied and screamed as the carriage was bowled over in its entirety.

*

“Let me get this straight,” Bobby pondered, freeing one finger from the whisky glass he clutched to point at Logan, “your mother and father arranged a marriage? To another prince?”

“That’s what he explained already, Robert,” Hank murmured. He munched on a drumstick and licked his clawed finger. Warren sighed.

“It doesn’t matter that he was a prince. It matters that he was a bastard,” he said. “Logan’s better off without him.”

“No one else here thinks this is odd?”

“Sometimes ya hafta think outta the box, Bobby,” Logan told him. He brooded over his drink. Maidens approached him for dances, but he politely declined, pleading exhaustion. They pouted and sulked, wishing he’d change his mind.

“Think out of the box? What does that even mean?”

“It means be open-minded and flexible and consider different options.”

“It’s my own damned fault,” Logan grumbled. “Could’ve tried a little harder ta fit the bill for what some of the previous ones were lookin’ for.”

“And you would’ve been trying to be someone you aren’t,” Hank pointed out.

“Like that’s ever worked so well for anyone we know,” Warren added. “Buck up. He sounds dreadful.”

“The king and queen were pleasant enough,” Logan said. “Father and Mother are fond of ‘em.”

“Good. I hope this doesn’t mar their relationship.” Hank finished this meal and poured them another round of whisky. “Here’s to mending broken hearts.”

“My heart ain’t broken,” Logan argued, but he clinked his friends’ glasses. Victor strode over, interrupting them.

“Sire, it’s getting late.”

“Then go home if ya need yer beauty sleep. This bottle ain’t empty yet. I’m gonna help close the tavern tonight.”

“The Queen wouldn’t approve.”

“I’m hardly a child. My subjects would agree with me. A certain young prince thinks I’m positively ancient.”

“The hell with the stuck-up little bastard. Granted, ya ARE old, Highness, but sometimes it’s an old shoe that’s the most comfy, eh?”

“You’re such a comfort in Logan’s time of need, my friend,” Hank drawled.

“I need some air,” Logan said, rising from the table. He was back in his rough garb, a shirt made from dark brown homespun and snug leather breeches for riding. The women watched him longingly as he strode out, Victor in tow.

“’Bout time. Let’s head back.”

“I’m not ready,” Logan informed him curtly.

“Wouldn’t kill ya ta try an’ pick yer own bride,” Victor huffed. They both leaned against a post and watched the dark clouds roll across the sky.

“Lemme just whistle up another princess outta thin air, Victor.”

“Naw. Not a princess. Just a fine, lovin’ woman who knows her place. Why worry about a princess who worries more about how ta walk and what gown ta wear in court, when ya can find one who sets a fine table at supper and knows how ta warm yer bed at night?”

“Gads,” Logan groaned. “That’s nice, Victor.”

“You’re always welcome, sire.”

*

Remy only knew pain.

His arm felt broken. He could still wiggle his fingers, and he tried to reach for his knife. It was futile in the cursed darkness. Remy feared his lantern had been extinguished.

His body throbbed as he flipped himself over and crawled from the wreckage, thanking the gods that he hadn’t broken his neck.

“Nate…Sam…” he moaned. He heard no reply. Remy began to believe the worst.

A low, bone-chilling growl crept toward him. Remy feared the beasts in the thicket could hear his heartbeat and smell his terror. Birds screeched overhead, and Remy caught small paws skittering in the leaves.

Eyes. They glowed out from the darkness, piercing him. Boring into him. Measuring him.

A wolf added its howl to the bear’s growls as Remy caught its enormous, grim silhouette against the brush.

“Shit,” he grated out.

It was all the provocation they needed. The beasts attacked.

*

“I’m about done,” Logan told Hank, squeezing his shoulder companionably.

“Come and see me soon,” Warren offered, standing to embrace him. His grip on his was firm. Bobby sighed.

“Might as well. You’ve no wife to keep you from it.”

“Maybe it’s just as well.”

“Tell yourself that if you like,” Hank said, pulling him back into the hug. “You’re a good man, and you’ll make a fine king.”

“I don’t look forward to it.” And he didn’t. His parents were getting on in years, and Logan dreaded the inevitable. “That burden carries a heavy price.”

“It’s a child’s duty to outlive their parents,” Warren reminded him. “Even if it’s not to our liking.”

“It’d be nice if you didn’t have to do it alone,” Bobby complained.

“I’m touched,” Logan snarked, punching him in the arm.

“Ow…”

Logan stopped at the barkeep’s stand and took out his pouch of coins.

“On the house, Highness.”

“Please, take something for yourself, for the fine hospitality you’ve shown me.”

“It’s an honor, Highness,” he said with a smile, carefully pushing the pouch back across the bar to him.

“Ya serve a fine ale.”

“It’s a pleasure, both to serve it, and to brew it from the fine harvest we enjoyed this spring.”

“Lively crowd tonight.”

“I hope it serves as a fine distraction, sire…” He cut himself off, clapping his mouth shut.

“A distraction from my failed betrothal? Aye, things didn’t quite work out the way I’d planned.”

“You didn’t plan them,” Victor chimed in.

“True enough.”

“His Majesty and his men stopped through two days ago; I’m guessing that was the first leg of their journey?”

“Really? I’m surprised he didn’t just ride through the night to save time. He was in an awfully big hurry to leave.” Logan donned his cloak, glad to have it as the night chill crept over him. It felt like rain was coming.

“He left a generous tip.”

“As well he should have,” Hank muttered. “Least he could do.”

“It’s not my place to speak ill of the crown, even if it isn’t my land’s crown,” said the barkeep.

Logan bade them goodnight, forgoing goodnight kisses from his admirers for a change. He mounted Maverick and led the way from the inn’s stables. Victor grumbled behind him from his large mare.

“Could’ve had your pick of any woman in there.”

“There was nothing stopping ya,” Logan remarked.

“It’s my duty to see you home.”

“It’s your duty to rain on my parade,” Logan corrected him. “Yer doing a fine job of it.”

They rode on toward the woods until Logan noticed an odd formation of birds, flying fast from the north, as though something startled them.

“That ain’t natural,” he murmured.

“Eh?”

“Vic. That way.” He pointed away from their trail. “Somethin’s up.”

“It’s none of our business, sire.”

“If it’s happening within our borders, then it is our business.” Logan clucked his tongue, beckoning Maverick into a gallop. Victor made a noise of disgust and rode after him. He was grateful that he enjoyed sharp night vision, just as strong as his king’s. He didn’t pity any man or creature at a disadvantage in the darkness.

*

Remy’s flesh burned as warm blood seeped from his wounds. His knife lay useless on the ground, several yards away from him and glinting in the moonlight.

The denizens of the forest lost interest in him. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or upset that they hadn’t put him out of his misery.

He was alone. He hung onto life and wondered how long he had, if he would last until morning light.

Forgive me, Maman.

For the first time since he was a boy, Remy wept. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, mingling with dirt and blood streaking his skin.

His carriage was ruined, and one of his horses managed to get away, while the other was mauled to death. He had little hope of making it out of the forest in time to find help, and he was lost. 

He heard the approach of hooves through his delirium, unable to believe that his prayers had been answered.

“Please,” he groaned raggedly. “Please…help…please help me!” he called out weakly.

“Who’s there?” a voice boomed in reply.

“I’m hurt!” he cried.

Two shapes loomed in the darkness. Remy saw the figures dismount from their horses, but his vision was failing him, blurring from loss of blood.

The shorter one hurried toward him while the other hung back.

“Sire…wait…don’t get too close, he might be shamming!”

“Don’t give me that shit,” growled a familiar voice as he approached. Large, strong hands took hold of him, turning him as gently as he could. “Ya all right?”

“Please,” Remy whispered. “Hurts. It hurts.”

“I know,” the voice soothed. The man’s face was obscured by a cloak. He gathered Remy close against the heat of his body.

“This is a bad idea.”

“We’re two men. And when ya get a good look at this one, bub, yer gonna agree with me that we’ve got the advantage.” Logan smelled blood on the young man in his arms, and was puzzled when he noticed another scent. Herbal, almost like cologne. He tried to place when he’d smelled it before.

“Let’s go,” Logan ordered. “He can ride along with me. Check his carriage and see if he left anything important behind.”


	4. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spurned groom comes to Remy’s rescue. Things get interesting.

“Highness, you’re soaked clean through! What on earth happened to you?”

“Let me have your cloak, Highness, you’ll catch a chill, I’ll start a fire,” Pietro babbled, adding his voice to Jean-Paul’s as they fussed over him. Their hands pulled at him, attempting to push him into a chair, but Logan shook them off impatiently.

“No! Don’t!” Logan flung the offending wet, muddied cloak across the room and headed toward the hallway. “PHYSICIAN!” he bellowed. Pietro and Jean-Paul flinched. Their lord was in a fit of pique, face twisted in a black scowl, and they sensed a fearsome energy within him, as though nothing would stop him from accomplishing a task they couldn’t grasp.

“What’s happening?” Jubilee asked Paige as they hurried toward the prince’s chamber with the hot water and towels he ordered.

“I haven’t the faintest,” she whispered back. “But his Highness is in a dither.”

“Be prepared to run for it, Paige.”

“Highness, forgive me, but who is this?”

“Someone yer gonna see a lot of over the next few days. I’m gonna tell ya right now,” Logan informed them harshly, “the two of ya are gonna be custodians of his safety and well-being. Treat him the way you would treat me if I came home to you in his condition.” Pietro approached the bed where a lean, wan figure was sprawled out, bundled in a damp blanket. His intake of breath was sharp as he drew the coverlet back from his face. “Don’t disturb him!”

“Sire…I’m sorry. This is such a shock. He’s wearing royal colors.”

“I know that,” Logan snapped.

“Sire…is he…?” Jean-Paul inquired, hoping Logan would fill in the blank.

“Address him as Prince Remy when he awakes,” Logan said as he moved about the room. He jerked open the armoire and rummaged through his things, finding a clean white shirt, loose enough to be comfortable. Jean-Paul jumped back into action, helping him into fresh clothes and setting aside his mud-caked boots for the page to collect.

Paige and Jubilee brought in the water and rags. “Wait. Don’t go. Whisky. Bring some, quickly. Tell Clementine I told you to if she gives you trouble.” His cook ran a tight ship. Logan prepared himself for the inevitable blistering she’d likely give him. It didn’t matter that he was a prince. Clementine was a force to be reckoned with.

The young man writhed on the bed. Low moans of pain escaped him, not shaping words from their substance yet.

“He’s in horrible shape,” Jean-Paul murmured. His gut clenched at the sight of the wounds, raw and slick with thickening blood. His clothing was hopelessly torn, as though someone or something tried to tear it from him. He went to remove Remy’s blanket, but Logan stopped his hands.

“No. Stoke up the fire first. Keep him warm. I won’t have him catching more of a chill.”

“A fever’s likely to set in from the infection, sire, if not from his time in the rain.” The rain washed the dirt and grit from the ground into his wounds, despite Logan’s efforts to cover him on his ride home.

Before Remy blacked out, he felt himself being carefully lifted and hauled up high. He smelled horseflesh and rain, as well as the tang of whisky. He was in too much pain to guess the source.

“We’ll come back for your servants,” the voice above him rumbled.

“Nate…” he rasped. “Sam…”

“Don’t worry about them right now,” Logan soothed. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that his footman and coachman were lying crushed and lifeless in the brush, staring sightlessly at the sky. “Rest.”

“Teeth. Eyes. Came for me,” his charge moaned. “They came for me! Out of the dark!”

The clouds briefly rolled and shifted, revealing the moon long enough to illuminate the surrounding woods. Logan brushed aside the young man’s hair that was torn loose from his long braid, so that it no longer obscured his eyes.

Eyes.

Red on black. Rubies against velvet. Logan swallowed around a bitter lump.

Logan felt his pity slowly replaced by shock, then a slow-simmering frustration.

His shame was easier to bear when he was content in the knowledge that he and Remy would never lay eyes on each other again. The bad memory could remain a memory.

Logan’s face was still obscured by his cloak.

“Cold,” he insisted.

“I know. It’s all right.” Remy felt himself propped and settled against the man’s solid bulk, gathered close against the hard planes of his chest. His breath was warm, steaming his temple and bringing the sting of whisky with it. Remy huddled more deeply into that warmth, desperate for a balm to his pain. His hands exhausted what strength they had left, fisting themselves in the rough homespun shirt.

“Something got him good,” Victor murmured. “Bear, I’m thinking.” He sniffed the air and peered at the animal tracks. “And wolf. More than one. Must’ve really stirred ‘em up for ‘em to attack like that.”

“But why?” Logan wondered. The woods were quiet; Logan felt the same sense of security out in the open, that nature was watching over him, blessing him. He wondered what, if anything, Remy had done to offend the creatures Logan shared an unbreakable kinship with. 

The carriage was a wreck, totaled. The slain horse wasn’t mauled or scavenged, so the wolves’ motive hadn’t been food.

The horse beneath him began its journey, rolling beneath Remy and lulling him into a troubled sleep.

*

Logan kept vigil throughout the night, propped up in his vanity chair. When Remy woke briefly, Logan dosed him with whisky to numb some of his pain and to soothe him. He babbled in his sleep periodically and was succumbing to delirium. His skin was pale except for the flush of fever in his cheeks.

Logan mopped his brow and chest with cool, wet cloths around the clock, sending the soiled ones out with Jubilee. Pietro and Jean-Paul tsked over the loss of his beautiful clothing and gingerly changed him into a fresh pair of white linen drawers.

His form was breathtaking, making it so tempting to take liberties, to let hands linger on his smooth skin, but they shook off the urge. Their lord’s expression brooked no nonsense and even less patience.

But he was beautiful.

Remy’s body was lithe and sculpted. His chest and abdomen were taut as a drum, supple skin stretched over hills of muscle. His limbs were long and held wiry strength, and his legs were perfectly formed, long and graceful. They were sparsely covered with dark brown hair, showing the contours of muscle to splendid effect. He had long, narrow feet with long toes.

“Clean as a whistle,” Pietro murmured with a chuckle. “You could learn something from this one.” He tweaked Remy’s big toe, admiring his immaculate toenails.

“Please,” Logan muttered in disgust. Jean-Paul gently rolled and turned Remy in bed to change the damp, bloodied sheets. They assisted the castle’s physician, Leonard, as he dressed the prince’s wounds.

They left Logan alone shortly before dawn. Exhaustion pricked him, but Logan remained awake, staring at his guest.

His would-be groom.

Bitterness wrapped itself around him. Logan swirled his brandy in its goblet absently and watched the flames dance in the grate.

Remy moaned, tossing aside his blankets.

“Don’t,” Logan admonished. “Don’t catch a chill.”

“Please,” he cried raggedly. “Help me. Please.”

“You’re safe now. Rest. Don’t make such a fuss.”

“Etienne,” he told him. Logan dampened another cloth and stroked his throat with it, wiping remaining smudges of blood away. He had a long cut over his brow that would possibly leave a scar. Logan huffed, wondering if Remy would despair of that more than his totaled carriage and dead servants.

“Who is he? Do ya want us to send a message to him?”

“Told him…take care of papa’s sword,” he whispered. His eyes snapped open, pinning Logan, yet they seemed to look through him. His hand flew up, snatching Logan’s hand. His fingers dug into his wrist with surprising strength. “Told him to take care of my sword.”

The meaning of his words sunk in.

“Ya have a son.”

“Bella…tol’ me ta love him…love…him…” His face twisted in pain. Logan offered him more whisky. Remy gulped it down, nearly choking on it, while Logan propped him up by the shoulders. The natural scent of his hair was marred by the coppery stench of curdled blood.

Logan laid him back down and tucked him back in, smoothing his covers.

“We’ll get you back to your son. Soon,” Logan promised. 

He reached down to smooth back a lock of Remy’s hair from his face. Remy sighed and leaned into his gentle touch. The tension drained from his face as he finally began to feel safe. Remy’s features relaxed.

“Merci,” he slurred.

Logan snatched his hand away. 

He’d nearly fallen under his spell, drawn by that voice, those compelling eyes.


	5. Nurse

Summary: The chapter title says it all. Logan cares for the peevish prince, even though it takes all he has not to kill him.

Author's Note: There is a hint of citrus in this chapter. Just a hint. *chuckle*

A rough poke jerked Logan from an uncomfortable, too short sleep. His snore was interrupted, choking him awake. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, knocking loose bits of grit. He had the worst kink in his neck and felt disjointed, disoriented.

“You.” The voice held an accusing note, even though Remy sounded weak and strained.

Logan steeled himself. “Good mornin’.”

“Is it?”

“Hold on,” Logan said as he rose. His joints popped as he stretched, relieved to be out of his cramped sleeping position. He crossed the large chamber and drew the curtains back, flooding the room with sunlight. Remy groaned. His unique eyes squinted into slits, then adjusted to the change.

But his eyes raked over Logan, taking in his tousled, scruffy appearance.

“Dis is how Remy expected ya t’look, homme,” he rasped.

“I ain’t sure whatcha mean by that, but I’ll make a note of it.”

“Wild,” Remy murmured. “Not wrapped up in fancy trappin’s.” Logan grunted.

It was true. Logan hated the uncomfortable, rich clothing himself, feeling out of place and unlike himself. He needed clothes he could live, move and work in without worrying about them getting soiled.

He stood a few feet from the bed, erect and proud, daring Remy to judge him. His hair was a lost cause, shaggy from the rain and slightly mashed on one side from leaning against the back of the chair while he slept. His fine cotton shirt was hopelessly wrinkled but fell in loose, graceful folds around his sturdy body. He only wore white drawers to cover his vitals, identical to the pair Remy slept in.

Those unnervingly sharp hazel eyes were puffy and squinting in annoyance. He almost resembled a wet cat. The comparison made Remy smirk.

“What?”

“Not’in.’”

“Ya might have an easier time lecturin’ me on sartorial elegance and fashion when yer able ta get outta bed and dress yerself,” Logan mentioned casually. “Can ya move yer arm?” That was the first time Remy noticed the splint and bandages.

That brought the night before into sharp focus. As if on cue, Remy’s arm began to throb.

Logan noticed his grimace. “Yer in pain.”

“Damn it, of course I’m in pain!”

“Wait.” Logan was frustrated with the indignity of trying to be pleasant to someone he could rightfully throw out of his castle. Or at any rate, toss out of his room on his ass. Logan went to the fainting couch by the window and removed two of the cushions. As carefully as possible, he used one to prop Remy up.

“I’m gonna try not ta hurt ya –“

“Non. Ya ain’t gonna hurt me, period.” Remy’s mouth thinned and his eyes promised punishment.

“I’m just gonna try ta adjust yer arm. Elevate it.”

“Get one of de servants, den.”

“Right now, I’m it.”

“Summon one,” Remy demanded.

“No,” Logan said simply. “I’m gonna help ya. And yer gonna let me help ya.”

“Why?” Remy croaked.

Logan didn’t have an answer. He slid his hand beneath Remy’s upper arm carefully, invading his personal space.

“Damn it!” Remy hissed.

“I’m bein’ as careful as I can.” Remy cried out in pain as his arm was shifted, then lifted, transferred to the thick cushion and carefully propped.

“Ya don’ know what de hell yer doin’!” Remy blasted him, fully awake now and feeling the full effects of his helplessness.

“Ya want me ta call my servants,” Logan murmured dangerously, “but let me ask ya somethin’. Do ya treat yer own staff like this when they see ta yer care?”

“It’s no business of yours, homme, how I act in my own palace.”

“It is my business how ya act in mine. Yer gonna treat my staff with respect.” Remy noticed he didn’t include himself in those expectations. He huffed, irritated.

“Where’re my clothes?”

“Ruined. They can be replaced. My valets, Jean-Paul and Pietro, will see to that once you’ve bathed and eaten.”

“Tell me,” Remy said, glaring up at him, “what happened to my men? My coachman, Nathaniel? And Samuel?”

“We found them when we found you.” Logan exhaled a breath. “They’re to be buried tonight.”

The words hit Remy like a blow. He squeezed his eyes shut, overcome. Pity gripped Logan when he heard his low groan of regret.

“No, God, please…” Logan quietly sat down in the chair beside him and hung back, letting him have his moment.

A low sob wracked Remy’s chest. His good hand crept up to grind the heel of his fist into his eyes, then pound his forehead in defiance.

“No,” he wept. “Not Sam. He was too damned young. Promised his maman he’d have a place in my palace, and dat he’d be well cared for. Promised her…”

Logan silently rose from his chair and left him.

It surprised him how much it gnawed at him to see the younger prince in pain. Logan could cleanse his physical wounds, but witnessing such anguish moved him, and in a sense, made him feel helpless to do anything about it.

Logan made his way to the north wing of the castle, letting himself into the servants’ quarters.

He roused Jean-Paul, shaking him.

“Up. I need yer help.”

“Sire…?” He was groggy and confused, already rolling up to a sitting position in his narrow bed.

“Begin preparing Prince Remy for his day here. Breakfast and clothing. Then summon Leonard to see about his arm and other injuries.”

“Anything else, sire?” That was from Pietro. He watched his lord with concern. “Is he all right?”

“No. He weathered the night, but last night’s events have finally, fully hit him, and he’s the worst for it.”

“At once, Highness.” Jean-Paul beat Pietro out of bed, and they hurried to do Logan’s bidding.

Logan’s visit to their chamber had a ripple effect. One by one, every servant in his home scrambled awake and began the day’s preparations. Word traveled quickly about the prince’s guest and his arrival the night before.

Gossip flooded the kitchen once the scullery girls assembled and reported to Clementine.

“I heard the carriage is a shambles.”

“Right ripped him apart. A bear, probably.”

“Heard that prince from over the mountains has demon’s eyes.”

“Don’t be silly, he has the face of an angel! And you should see that hair!”

“Silly bints,” Clementine scolded. Her breasts bounced with the force of pounding her fists into a thick mound of dough. She was massive and formidable. Sweat beaded on her brow and she paused to scratch the flabby folds of her double chin. “It’s none of our affair how he ended up here! You, fetch me that pot for the cider!”

Clementine wouldn’t tolerate anyone speaking ill of the king and queen, nor of Prince James. Over the years she came to care for him as much as if he were her own son. She’d hoped just as strongly that he would make a successful betrothal and was crushed that he once again ended up alone. He was such a good man.

“Don’t just stand there, or I’ll find you something to do!” Clementine bellowed. The scullery maids took flight, washing, mixing and measuring. Clementine shook her head. “Honestly…”

A few minutes later, Jean-Paul arrived upstairs with a broad platter covered with a towel. He was surprised to find Logan standing by the window, his back to Remy as he stared outside. Remy no longer wept, but he stared with animosity at the doorway as Jean-Paul entered.

“May I leave it here, Highness?”

“Yes,” Logan told him.

“Non,” Remy argued. “Stay. I need help.”

“I will help you,” Logan reminded him.

“Oh, sire, I’d be glad to help him, really…”

“Ya have other duties.” Jean-Paul frowned, but did as he was told and left. In truth, he was slightly disappointed. Seeing the young prince in repose and in dishabille like that was very appealing.

“What other duties does he have, if he’s your valet?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Den why send him away?”

“I’d like to speak with you.” Logan brought the tray to the bedside. He uncovered it, setting the towel aside. Appetizing smells tickled Remy’s nose. There were scrambled eggs, bread and jam, cider and a warm, easy to digest broth.

“I’ll feed myself,” Remy insisted, grunting with the discomfort trying to prop himself further caused. Logan sighed, but he moved out of the way to watch his efforts.

Remy could still wiggle his fingers of his right hand, but it was nearly impossible to move it usefully with the splint. He reached for the spoon with his left hand and fumbled, spilling broth across the coverlet, then again down his chin when his grip faltered.

He flung it back into the bowl, exasperated.

“Damn it!” he burst out. He glared at Logan. “Happy?”

“Why?”

“Like seein’ me make a mess of dis?”

“No.” Logan picked up the bowl of broth carefully and held it up to Remy’s lips. “That’s my bed yer messin’ up.”

Remy flushed scarlet.

“Hungry? Here.” He leaned forward and helped Remy, again propping him and bringing the bowl at the right angle so all he had to do was dip his mouth and drink. “Think ya can handle the fork?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Soon, ya will. Right now, though, yer hurt. My physician says ya have a fractured arm, deep bruises on yer legs, and a few lacerations that weren’t deep enough ta have ta stitch ya back together. Ya got a concussion, no doubt when yer carriage rolled. Yer lucky ya didn’t break yer neck.”

“Because I jus’ feel so damned lucky right now,” Remy snarled. Logan almost sympathized with him.

“Try the eggs.” Logan took the liberty of spooning some jam onto Remy’s thick slice of bread and spreading it for him. Remy made a successful attempt with the fork and ate a couple of bites of egg. But one bite of the bread was all he could manage. 

“M’not dat hungry.”

“Fever,” Logan explained.

“My head hurts.”

“Part of the fever, and the concussion. Ya’ll mend soon enough. In the meantime, we’ve sent out a courier. Your mother and father have left us. When they return to find you haven’t made it back, they’ll be worried.” Remy paled.

“He’s not de only one who needs t’be told-“

“I know. There was a separate message written for yer son. By my own hand.” Remy’s brows beetled together.

“How d’ya know ‘bout my son?”

“Ya told me. Ya woke up several times last night. You mentioned Etienne. Am I sayin’ it right?”

“Close enough. But don’ trouble yerself, homme. It’s painful listenin’ t’people murderin’ French when it’s such a beautiful language.”

“My parents never said ya had a son.”

“Don’ know why dey left out dat particular detail.”

“It would’ve been helpful. Ya already have an heir. So with that in mind, ya don’t necessarily need a bride. Me, on the other hand, I don’t have either.”

“Dat’s what’s beginnin’ t’occur t’Remy. By right of marriage…if ya could even call it dat, my son would also become your heir. And heir ta Towering Trees.”

“That might have been what my mother meant by ‘thinking out of the box.’” Remy gave him an odd look but said nothing.

Logan had Remy’s tray cleared away and left him to Jean-Paul and Pietro’s mercies. They brought hot water for him to be bathed in bed and changed the sheets once more. Logan took them aside and warned them that more exhaustive details of his grooming could wait until the next day, since he still wasn’t well. Remy was cranky for most of the morning and lapsed back into an uneasy sleep.

“It’s a shame,” Pietro murmured once they were out of earshot. “I’d give anything to brush that hair.”

“It’s luscious,” Jean-Paul agreed as they peered back in through the crack in the doorway at Remy as he slumbered.

Logan finally saw to his own needs, retiring to his parents’ chamber to finish his ablutions in relative privacy. His father’s booming tones interrupted him.

“Why did I have the distinct displeasure of hearing Victor tell me that the two of you were caught in a storm last night?”

“We can’t control the weather, Father.”

“No! But you didn’t have to stay out so late, with only your groom to accompany you.”

“It’s just as well that we left when we did. We found him on time,” Logan pointed out.

“Perhaps you would have found him even sooner had you returned earlier.” Logan didn’t mention how seeing the flock of birds take flight in a panic from the woods was what led him to Remy’s rescue.

“Ya don’t know that, Father. But yer right, I do wish I had discovered him sooner.”

“How is he?” His father’s voice lowered and some of the anger left his face.

“He still needs considerable care. I mean ta see that he gets it.”

“Jean-Paul can take care of him.”

“I wanna give him closer supervision than that.”

“Supervision?” Jonathan asked, cocking a brow. Logan shrugged, then turned away, lacing up his boots.

He watched his son during the conversation and noticed the changes in his tone and eyes when he spoke of the prince. An inkling came to him that all wasn’t what it seemed.

He took a different tack.

“James,” he began, “I would like to speak with you about Remy.”

“What is there ta say?”

“Your mother and I had your best interests at heart. Believe me when I say that.”

“So you tried to arrange a marriage with a groom instead of a bride.”

“With a consort,” his father corrected him. “We’ve watched you change over the years, James. Each time a match didn’t suit, you grew a little more disappointed. A bit more jaded. Harder. You’re a strong man, and I admire you for it.” Logan looked up from his second boot and sat up. Jonathan saw sadness in his son’s eyes, so much like his own.

“Are ya ashamed of me, Father?”

“NO!” he boomed. He sat beside his son on the bed and covered Logan’s hand with his. Logan felt a pang of guilt as he studied it, knuckles slightly knotted with arthritis and skin drawn against large veins. Jonathan squeezed his and sighed. “I’m frustrated, watching this continue, but I could never be ashamed of my son.”

“No one wants me,” he said simply.

“You haven’t found the right person yet who does. Your mother and I haven’t, yet. We mean to rectify that.”

“A groom might not have been the ideal solution.”

“James? Before he denied you, what did you think of him?” 

Logan was speechless. He stared down into his lap, at their joined hands.

“Father…it doesn’t matter.”

Logan couldn’t believe his own ears.

Had he just said that?

A flare of hope raised Jonathan’s brows. “It does. It would be for the best to learn from this.”

“He said all I needed ta hear.”

“I have a hard time believing he’s that vain.”

“Maybe his bride was a beauty before.”

“He told you about her?”

“Only that she gave him a son.”

“Aaahhhh…” Jonathan scratched his chin thoughtfully. 

He rose from the bed.

“Don’t leave him waiting. You should be there when he wakes.” He clapped Logan on the back fondly. “Take good care of him.”

“Maybe if I don’t kill him first.”

*

Logan needn’t have worried. Remy plunged back into delirium as the fever gripped him again. Leonard peered into Remy’s eye, prying open his upper lid as he slept.

“We overestimated how well he’s recuperating. He has an infection.” Remy’s skin was hot to the touch and he occasionally jerked beneath the covers. 

Panic seized Logan. “Don’t talk in circles, tell me what needs ta be done!”

“Liquids. Plenty of water and clear cider. Soup, if he feels like eating. But this wound needs to be drained.” He peeled back the covers and revealed Remy’s calf. The flesh around the deep cut was swollen and showing angry red streaks and the beginnings of shining pus. Logan felt sick, hating that they hadn’t given him adequate care. “It will be painful.”

“I won’t leave him.”

“I’d never ask you to. You can assist me.” Leonard left the chamber to assemble his tools and bandages. Logan watched Remy sleep more fitfully, brow wrinkling in concern.

“Yer gonna be all right,” he whispered. “I promise.” He smoothed Remy’s hair back from his face and simply stroked it, in some way hoping to soothe him. “We’ll get ya back ta yer son. Maybe ya don’t need me,” Logan admitted, “but he needs you.”

*

Remy woke to searing pain.

He struggled awake, eyes snapping open wide as the blazing hot, piercing sharpness punctured his flesh.

“AAAGHHHHHHHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOO! DAMN YOU!” His screams were ragged and guttural. Sweat broke out over his face and chest as the pain grew. Strong, merciless hands squeezed his calf, mitigating the pain. His skin was pierced again, opening another shallow wound near the first. Remy felt nauseous and dizzy.

“Stay with me,” a voice by his ear urged. “I’m here! Hold onto me!” He was being held down while the torture was inflicted upon him, and Remy wasn’t having it. He thrashed and cried out, the fist of his good arm flying up to strike wherever it landed. His effort was rewarded by a grunt of pain and low curses.

“Leave me…be…!” Remy shook and his teeth chattered from the shock of the pain and the cool air bathing his heated skin, now that the blankets were drawn back.

Outside the chamber, Pietro and Jean-Paul paced and fretted, waiting to be told what to do. The young prince’s moans and whimpers of pain tore at him, making him feel helpless and useless.

“I can’t stand it,” Pietro cried. “I hate seeing anyone suffer like that.” He turned to Jean-Paul. “Are you…crying?”

“No. M’fine,” Jean-Paul mumbled, but he dashed a tear from his eye before it could fall.

“You were crying,” Pietro accused.

“I merely had something in my eye.” He turned away and folded his arms across his chest, doing his best to ignore the other valet. Pietro sighed and reached for him, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“I didn’t say I blamed you,” he murmured softly. Jean-Paul nodded and cleared his throat, satisfied.

Leonard made another small cut, mindful not to probe too deep and to make him lose too much blood. Pale, yellowish pus oozed steadily from the wound as they massaged the muscle and firmly exerted pressure away from Remy’s heart. Remy flailed and thrashed back against the pillow until Logan held him down, covering his chest with his weight.

“Let…me be,” Remy gasped. “Please.”

“Soon,” Logan promised, his deep voice almost a croon. His forearm held him pinned to the mattress, but Logan’s free hand stroked Remy’s jaw. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner ya’ll get well. But ya can’t keep fightin’. That’s a sharp knife my doctor’s usin’ t’open yer wound. Ya don’t wanna make him miss.” Remy paled and ceased his struggles, but then he shivered, teeth chattering. “Hush,” he whispered, and he went back to stroking his hair.

Bit by bit Remy’s tremors slowed to occasional jerks. The bed dipped beneath Remy as Logan sat on the edge.

He held his good hand and stroked his hair. Remy’s eyes were glazed and watery, beseeching Logan. It was painful to witness.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

“Don’ leave me,” Remy croaked.

And Logan didn’t.

*

Over the next twelve hours, Remy winked in and out of consciousness. He moaned and struggled as hands periodically shifted and prodded him. Comfort occasionally came in the form of cool damp cloths swabbing his chest and neck. Some of them had an acidic, tangy odor and their moisture evaporated more quickly. Logan made good use of the witch hazel solution the doctor prescribed.

He drank liquids. After a while, he couldn’t tell one kind from another. Each time he was gently propped, even cradled by someone very strong as cups or bowls were lifted to his lips. He spat out the more bitter concoctions until a gruff voice told him it was medicine to help purge his infection.

He woke again to the agony of the knife, sterilized by flame as his wound was opened and drained once more. This time he bore it, but the strain weakened him, leaving him limp as a rag.

Those large, comforting hands returned, stroking his scalp and damp cheek, wiping away unintentional tears. During moments of clarity, deep hazel eyes creased with lines of worry watched him, roving over him with concern.

*

Daylight.

A spear of sunlight crept inside through the gap in the curtains. It illuminated his unfamiliar surroundings. Dimly he wondered why he wasn’t in his own bed, and why the familiar effects of his chamber were missing.

The chamber was quiet except for low breathing coming from beside him. Remy’s eyes jerked to the left. It was still painful to move, but he gingerly turned himself to face the interloper.

It was Prince James. And he was curled up uncomfortably, snoring like a drunken sailor.

Remy would have laughed if he wasn’t so shocked.

Or in so much pain…his muscles ached, as though they had been tensed and strained all night. His arm and leg both throbbed, but his leg no longer felt swollen and heavy. Remy experimentally flexed the fingers of his broken arm. They wiggled. He was relieved.

In the meantime, he watched his host, taking in details of his face while he slept.

No. Logan was no great beauty. His opinion hadn’t changed in that regard. But when his features were relaxed in sleep, his face was less imposing, more human. 

His lips were well-formed, and his jaw was covered in a coat of dark stubble. Remy was tempted to caress it, to see if it felt like sandpaper.

It had been a very, very long time since he’d woke up beside another man. He’d long been deprived of a man’s rougher touch and throaty groans, almost forgetting how it felt to be taken completely, to experience the different texture of male skin covered with wiry hair.

He smelled very, very male. There was also a hint of whisky on his breath.

He hadn’t grown any taller overnight, Remy thought derisively. But stretched out, wearing the simple shirt and drawers, Remy had a better look at his physique. With his head thrown back slightly he could see the cords of muscle in his neck and the massive shoulders more clearly; his shirt was bunched up and made the thin fabric stretch more snugly over his contours.

Logan grunted in his sleep and turned halfway, as though he was trying to economize space in the bed around his guest. When he flipped over onto his back, Remy was treated to a better view of his…assets.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes hungrily devouring the sight of his pebbled nipple peaking through the open flap of the shirt, as well as the generous mound of his sex in the modest britches. 

Had it been any other man, prince or not, Remy would have taken full advantage of Logan’s “morning predicament” and prolonged getting out of bed for as long as possible. Remy felt Logan’s body heat radiating from him without even touching him.

It appalled him how much he wanted to touch him…

He must have stared too long. Logan’s eyes suddenly snapped open, then jerked toward Remy.

“Bon jour,” Remy murmured smugly. “Got ‘nuff beauty rest, homme?”

“So this ain’t just a nightmare,” Logan retorted. His voice was raspy and hoarse first thing in the morning and unbelievably sexy, but Remy didn’t give any sign that it affected him. “I get ta start my day takin’ care of a pain in the ass.”

“Didn’t pay much attention in etiquette class, non?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon. ‘Might I inquire how you slept, Sire?’” Logan deadpanned as he rose and heartily scratched himself.

“Dat was elegant,” Remy said under his breath. He rolled his eyes while Logan’s back was turned to him. 

Logan surprised him by automatically pouring him a cup of water from a nearby pitcher and handing it to him.

“Can ya manage it yerself?”

“Oui. Merci.”

“Sure.” Their fingertips barely grazed each other as he handed him the glass. Remy felt a strange, lingering flush steal up his neck as Logan watched him drink.

“How long’ve I been here?”

“Almost three days now. Ya’ve been unconscious fer most of it.” Remy paled.

“Need t’get back. Can’t stay away dis long. Etienne’s missing me.”

“I know,” Logan reminded him. “We already sent word that you’re being taken care of. Ain’t like I have any plans ta kidnap ya and hold ya fer ransom, Highness.”

“Remy. Enough wit’ dat ‘Highness’ nonsense. Make me sound like a snob, when you’re a prince, too, homme.”

“Ya didn’t exactly give me a favorable first impression in that respect. Ain’t every day my parents roll out the red carpet only ta have our esteemed guest tell me I look like a troll.”

“Jus’ weren’t what Remy wuz expecting.”

“Likewise. Remember?” Logan’s eyes swept over him accusingly. “My blushin’ bride.” Logan was already growing frustrated with the conversation. 

His stomach growled in agreement. He went to the chamber door and opened it, bellowing down the hall.

“PAIGE! COME!”

“Sire?” The answering voice was girlish and held enthusiasm for whatever command she received.

“Breakfast. Tell Clementine ta send up enough fer two. Add some juice and broth.”

“Tired of nothin’ but drinkin’,” Remy complained from the bed.

“When yer well enough ta start feedin’ yerself, ya get ta eat a little more,” Logan shrugged. It was no skin off his nose when Remy scowled at him very unprettily.

Logan took satisfaction in that dark look. It was fun to rile him up, and he enjoyed the slant of those arched, tapered dark brows and the tiny lines bunched between them.

When she returned with the tray, Logan stopped her at the door while she tried to peer around his shoulders into the room.

“We’re fine with this for now. Rouse Jean-Paul. We’ll need a bath sent up soon.”

“Both of you, sire?”

“Just his Highness, Prince Remy. I’ll handle my own washing in my parents’ chamber once he’s finished.” She curtsied and rushed off. Logan sighed and brought the tray to the bedside table.

“Eat whatever yer in the mood for. Don’t overdo it,” Logan warned him as he lifted the cover from the food. Remy’s stomach lurched slightly, the fragrances almost overwhelming when he hadn’t eaten for so long. He tweaked a slice of bread from the dish and chewed it with little enthusiasm. Logan poured some juice into his empty water cup.

“Don’ hafta baby me.”

“’Course not,” Logan shrugged as he helped himself to a link of lamb sausage. He bit into it heartily, rumbling in contentment around it. The scent of the meat was almost too rich, but Remy’s taste buds remembered too well the flavor of such a delicacy.

“Want a piece of dat.”

“Sure? It’s spicy.”

“Dere’s never been a spice dat Remy couldn’t handle,” he informed him haughtily. Logan speared another link of sausage and held it out to him on a fork, blowing on it first to cool it. “Don’ need ya t’spoon feed me,” he sneered.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Logan assured him, quickly releasing the fork and throwing up his hands in surrender. Remy demonstrated this by taking a too hearty, too quick bite of the succulent meat.

“AAAGGHH!!!”

“Ouch,” Logan muttered as Remy nearly choked. His eyes had widened and he furiously fanned his mouth, beckoning to Logan to hand him something to drink. Logan handed him the juice and soon regretted that. A hasty gulp of juice made the searing hot pepper in the sausage bite more deeply into Remy’s tongue. Logan realized his mistake and then shoved a handful of the bread at him. Remy eyes were round with shock, then accusing as he chewed on the bread, catching his breath and his bearings.

His entire face was flushed and indignant. “What de hell wuz in dat?”

“Lamb,” Logan shrugged, “the blood from the meat, onions, garlic, some fat, and a few secret ingredients.”

“Dat’s one secret ya need ta keep ta yerself,” Remy thundered. “Ya always eat dat?”

“Almost every morning. Clem knows I like my hot peppers.”

“Hot peppers?”

“Yup. Serrano, mostly. Habaneros are a little mellower, though.” Remy glared and leaned back against the pillows, already tired of breakfast.

“T’ink you’re tryin’ t’kill me.”

“I haven’t known you long enough.”

*

After coaxing Remy to have more broth and bread – a task not unlike trying to reason with a two-year-old – Logan left him to his ablutions once he checked his wounds.

“Gonna need ta change these,” he said, nodding to his bandages.

“Gonna hafta forgive Remy fo’ not bein’ a little more ent’usiastic ‘bout dat. Ev’ry time I close my eyes, pain’s involved, not t’mention sharp objects.”

“Sorry,” Logan admitted quietly. “Wasn’t much else we could do. Ya had an infection. A bad one.” Logan’s fists tightened in his lap. “We were worried about yer recovery.” Then he remembered himself. “Fer yer son’s sake. Don’t wanna keep ya here any more than ya wanna stay.”

But Logan was gentle as he unwrapped the bandage on Remy’s leg, stroking the slightly raised flesh that was beginning to heal into a neat scar. Remy’s shapely calf was firm and warm beneath his fingertips.

Remy shivered beneath his feather-light touch and his big toe twitched. He already felt too exposed, wearing nothing but the drawers, and Logan had to peel back the covers to examine him. It was beginning to feel entirely too personal.

Logan, too, looked disconcerted and uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and discarded the old bandage.

“Jean-Paul can redo it once yer cleaned up. I’ll have some clothes sent up in the meantime.”

“We’re not exactly de same size.”

“I know that,” Logan tsked in disgust. “Don’t worry. I won’t make ya settle fer hand-me-downs.” He didn’t let Remy know that he was currently lounging in a pair of Logan’s drawers. That secret knowledge made Logan’s cheeks feel warm.

Logan crossed the room and opened the door.

“Where ya goin’?” Remy called out. He sounded indignant.

“Ta wash, and ta start my day.”

“What about my day?” Remy reminded him. “Ain’t gonna jus’ lie here all day in dis little room.”

“No. That’s exactly what yer gonna do fer now, Highness.”

“Like hell.”

“Ya wanna see it that way, fine, then. Welcome ta hell.” Without a further word, Logan left his room, catching Remy’s low curses on his way out. He sighed.

Jean-Paul and Pietro showed up a few minutes later with the tub and filled it with steaming water.

“Do you need help with those?” Pietro inquired, looking entirely too interested as he nodded at Remy’s garment.

“Don’t strain yourself, we’ll help you, Highness,” Jean-Paul added enthusiastically as they carefully freed him from the covers and helped him sit up. They both held their breath as they took in his masculine beauty.

“I can manage…” Remy began, but they were already helping him out of the drawers, fingers grazing his smooth, firm skin. Their touch tickled and made him blush, something he wasn’t in the habit of. He had manservants before, but perhaps none who were so…effusive?

“We’ll take good care of you, sire,” Jean-Paul promised with alacrity.

“Consider this your second home,” Pietro added as they guided him to the tub. Remy still felt weak and was grateful for the hold they had on him as he stepped gingerly into the hot water. The shock of the heat soon gave way to relief as it swallowed up his aching muscles when he settled in. Logan’s valets set about gathering together towels and soap, and they held up selections of clothing for him to wear.

“This might go nicely with your eyes, sire,” Pietro offered, holding up a black tunic. Remy shrugged, then nodded. They considered his feet, then settled on a pair of slippers instead of boots for the time being. The trousers were made of soft, breathable black fabric instead of the homespun or plain cotton Logan favored to rest more comfortably against his scars.

They finally had their way with his hair. Jean-Paul massaged soft soap into the long, thick ripples and was mindful of the cut Remy had on his brow. Remy sighed beneath his ministrations; it felt so good against his scalp. Pietro attacked him from the opposite end, scrubbing his feet with a small brush and kneading the balls and heels. He couldn’t fault the hospitality. His manhood twitched and bobbed to life beneath the water, however, when he blew a draft of cool air over his toes. They carefully bent him forward and poured pitchers of water over his head to rinse away the foam, shielding his beautiful eyes in the process.

“Much better,” he rumbled as Jean-Paul wrung out his hair and began to dry it with a towel. He then let the long mass hang over the edge of the tub while they washed the rest of him. The sensations of two pairs of hands running wash rags over his skin was decadent, traveling from the crest of his shoulder, all the way down to soap the webbing between his fingers. No ripple or crease escaped their careful attention. Runnels of soapy foam ran over his pebbled nipples and taut abdomen, pooling in his navel. Jean-Paul’s mouth went dry.

“Is the water still warm enough, sire?”

“Mmmmmm…”

“If you wish to sit up a bit more, or perhaps kneel upright, we could finish getting the back of you, Highness.” This was from Pietro, who was kneading the sensitive hollow of the back of Remy’s knee.

They supported him as he did the latter, although the motion was slightly painful, but when he was fully upright, water sluicing back down his body into the tub, Jean-Paul and Pietro’s eyes dilated with lust.

Magnificent. Remy’s sex was throbbing with the rush of blood evoked by Pietro’s earlier attention to his feet and the languorous strokes of Jean-Paul’s wash cloth over his torso and neck. He was erect, rosy and flushed.

“I’ll…just get your back, sire.” Pietro let Jean-Paul make the suggestion and tried to avert his eyes, but he was riveted by the picture Remy made in his…entirety.

*

That was the scene Logan walked in on as he returned fully clothed from his parents’ chamber.

Both of his valets were rapt with their chore, eyes roving over Remy’s body hungrily. The younger prince’s skin glowed, rosy, clean and golden from his bath, and Jean-Paul’s washcloth was running down his lower back toward its destination, the supple mounds of Remy’s glutes. A trickle of water and foam was sliding down into the crease…

Logan swallowed hollowly. His fists tightened at his sides.

Shock turned to jealous fury.

“Off!” he flared. “OUT!”

“Sire!” Jean-Paul yelped. He chucked the washcloth back into the tub and he and Pietro jerked to their feet, backing away from the tub. Far away. Remy’s head swiveled around to peer over his shoulder, meeting Logan’s gaze.

The prince’s hazel eyes were dilated and his heavy brows slammed down over them dangerously. His nostrils flared with the effort to maintain some semblance of control.

He isn’t anything to me. Not my bride, not my groom, not my anything. But Logan’s body reacted so fiercely to the sight of two other men taking such obvious delight in his body. He was sorely tempted to drag both of them outside to horsewhip them, but then he recovered himself.

His breathing wasn’t quite under control yet. He drew great drafts of air into his lungs, making his broad chest expand impossibly wide.

“Yer finished here,” Logan informed them, tone clipped.

“Let us…just help him out of the tub,” Pietro began meekly.

“That won’t be necessary. You have other duties elsewhere.”

“But…” Both his valets were beet-red.

“NO. BUTS.”

“No, sire. Thank you, sire.” Jean-Paul hurried past Logan, Pietro close behind him. They nearly stumbled into each as they backed out of the room, bowing to Logan on their way out.

“Damn,” Remy muttered for the second time that morning. Logan moved swiftly and with purpose through the chamber, gathering up towels and blotting up the water that had splashed out of the tub before the floor could grow too slick. 

He seized him beneath the armpits and tugged him to his feet. The sensation of being pulled up so fast was unsettling, since Remy was still weak as a kitten. Logan’s rough hands were a sharp contrast from his valets’. The cool air chilled his damp flesh as Remy stumbled out of the tub.

A towel was hastily wrapped around his torso, whipping around him as two burly arms gathered him close, protecting him from the cold. Remy had little time to process the feel of Logan’s body pressed against his, or the effect it had on him, however, as he was lifted up like a babe, carried across the room and dumped unceremoniously back into bed.

“ACK!”

“Stay,” Logan barked as he stalked to the corridor. “COME GATHER UP THE BATH! I DON’T CARE WHO!” he bellowed. He tossed the shirt at Remy. “Get decent.”

“M’arm,” Remy reminded him as Logan glared down at him.

Those eyes…

…was Logan jealous? Remy watched him as he continued moving about, gathering the bar of soap and chucking it back into the tub, along with the brush Pietro had used on his feet.

“Ya can’t manage?”

“Ain’t easy wit’ de splint.”

Logan’s sigh was ragged and long-suffering. He strode to the bed and snatched up the tunic. “Hold still.”

Wrestling someone else into their clothes was perhaps more awkward than yanking them off of them, Logan realized. He slowed down and was more careful as he eased Remy’s bad arm into the sleeve, which was thankfully loose. Remy’s skin felt cool and smooth beneath his hands, but he steeled himself against the sensation of handling him so intimately, exercising the utmost discretion as he helped him back into the drawers and trousers. He trained his eyes on Remy’s face the entire time. Remy found it disconcerting, to say the least.

“Put these on. Don’t catch a chill through yer feet, or yer gonna end up just as sick as before,” Logan grumbled at him as he roughly shoved Remy’s slippers on his feet. Remy suppressed a chuckle. “What?”

“Ya done manhandling me?”

“Pretty much,” he said, already backing away from Remy, even though his physical presence was more intoxicating than he wanted to admit.

“Ya gonna leave me here with dripping hair?” Logan realized guiltily that Jean-Paul never had the chance to finish grooming him. 

“Come an’ sit by the fire, then.”

Logan guided him more carefully, yet still grudgingly, toward a chair beside the grate, easing him down. He found the towel he’d used to wrap Remy earlier and stood behind him, gathering up his long spill of hair. He began to vigorously rub his scalp and ears.

Remy surprised him, humming in contentment.

“Feels good,” he murmured. “Thank you, James.”

It felt odd, hearing him call him that.

“Logan,” he corrected him. “It’s James Logan. I prefer my middle name.”

“Suits you.”

“Glad ya approve,” he grunted as he continued his task, squeezing the excess moisture from the length of thick, luxuriously soft hair. The dark chestnut came alive with auburn highlights by the glow from the fire and the sunlight peeking inside as Logan worked his hands through it.

Without being asked, Logan found a silver hairbrush and began tugging it through the tangles, perhaps being rougher than he needed to, but Remy didn’t complain. He’d long been accustomed to different pairs of hands at the back of his head, building up a tough scalp from years of having the heavy mass braided and combed.

The jerky, swift brush strokes slowed and lengthened as the tangles were gradually worked free. Logan’s calloused fingertips grazed his nape as he gathered it up in a crude ponytail to brush underneath it. Remy was nearly lulled to sleep as the bristles moved over his scalp and temples. The scent of the sweet soap wafted up and tickled Logan’s nose, mingling with the young prince’s natural pheromones and the male tang of his flesh. He breathed it in more deeply, eyes closing a moment to better drink it in. Remy was drowsy and content, barely noticing when Logan’s hands paused.

A stupor drifted over both of them as Logan worked the last of the tangles loose and just brushed the hair for pleasure. It grew fuller and silkier as it dried, expanding in volume. Remy half-dozed, head tipped back slightly against Logan’s ribcage. Logan’s body was reacting to that contact, to the tender grip he had on him.

He’d gone erect, painfully, unable to be ignored or dismissed. The chair was the only thing between them that kept him from shaming himself.

Remy’s eyes drifted open in brief confusion, staring up at him when Logan caressed the lean, smooth line of his cheek before he could stop himself. Again, Remy leaned into his touch, closing his eyes in pleasure.

Logan’s gut clenched. No! What was he doing?

He cleared his throat and backed away, leaving Remy disoriented and disappointed.

“Yer fine. It’s dry. I think…yer fine,” he grumbled. “Gotta go.”

“Where?” Remy demanded.

“Anywhere…out. I mean out.” 

“What am I gonna do all day?”

“Be resourceful. Figure it out,” Logan snapped as he hurried out. Behind him, Remy threw up his hands and let them slap his thighs in frustration.


	6. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two men run out of it with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it demented that I’m having fun giving these two a hard time?

Logan fumed the whole way into town, despite the gorgeous weather surrounding him.

Maverick’s ears pricked and his gait quickened without Logan urging him any faster. He felt the prince’s anxiety as they traveled through the wide streets.

Victor was mere footsteps behind him on his own mount, watching his back thoughtfully.

“Full of vinegar this mornin’, aintcha?”

“Pfft…”

“Thought as much.”

“Try gettin’ as little sleep as I’ve had in the past three days.”

“Why? Whole point of bein’ a prince is ta have other people do the frettin’ for ya. That’s why ya have servants, and all those empty rooms.”

“I can’t leave him alone yet. He needs someone ta keep on eye on him.”

“Sure he does.”

Logan pulled his mount to a halt. His head swiveled around dangerously, and poison radiated from his intense hazel eyes. Victor grunted, but he didn’t drop his gaze.

“Ya could leave him ta Jean-Paul and Pietro.”

“They’d love that. And to answer that, hell, no.”

“They always were a little touchy feely,” Victor agreed sagely. “Why don’tcha send him and his happy ass on his merry way?”

“Use a little respect, Vic.”

“Sorry. He’s a prince,” Vic sniffed. “My mistake.” His tone suggested that didn’t make any difference.

“He’s not one hundred percent. He needs his strength for his journey back, and it’s two days by carriage to his palace. I can’t just send him alone through the canyon and over those mountains until he’s well. His fever’s broken, and his leg is on the mend. He still doesn’t have much use of his arm, either.”

“Fair enough. But ya don’t hafta play nursemaid.”

“Bite yer tongue.”

Victor snorted, and his smirk was knowing. “Maybe he should be bitin’ yer tongue instead. So much fer a royal wedding, eh?”

The last thing he saw was the dangerous look in Logan’s eye before he rounded on him and savagely jerked him off his horse, knocking him to the ground.

Victor rose to his feet and rubbed his hindquarters. “Ow…”

“If ya wanna stay on my good side, and by good side, I mean I won’t tear strips outta yer hide, then ya might wanna put a lid on yer opinions fer the rest of the trip.”

*

It was tax day. It wasn’t Logan’s favorite duty as the future king, but he looked forward to opportunities to greet his countrymen and see firsthand how they were faring under his parents’ rule.

But the children looked forward to his visits, because Prince James was easygoing and kind beneath his gruff demeanor. They peered out from the drab cottages’ windows and stared after him, frequently challenging each other to pull some small trick or prank at his expense, but these attempts always failed. The prince was rumored to have ears sharper than the quickest fox and eyes in the back of his shaggy head.

At first glance, he was an awesome sight, roughly garbed in dark homespun and a silver armor chest plate engraved with his family’s crest. The seal was the ornately rendered head of a howling wolf, and some would say it suited him. The armor was a mere formality, something Victor insisted on as his groom and royal bodyguard. He completed his image of his country’s sovereign with a flowing black cloak and shining black leather boots. What Logan lacked in height he made up for in mass, and he was an imposing figure mounted atop Maverick.

Even his horse’s strides were no-nonsense, pounding the stones along the street as he entered the city gates.

He tethered Maverick at the stable yard behind a tiny inn and gave a young boy two silver coins to brush him while he made his rounds. Victor walked beside him, nodding in silent greeting.

His appearance alone terrified the locals. Logan was amused to watch the effect he had on the townsfolk with just a withering glance or low, rumbling growl in his throat if anyone came too close.

His first stop was the shanty row on the north end. Logan tsked at the sight of some of the children running about with no shoes and covered in grime. He stopped by a small cottage that was perhaps the least pitiful on the street. Logan was relieved to see a half a cord of firewood stacked along the left wall, and the roof appeared to have been patched recently.

He knocked on the door, loudly enough to be heard but not to intimidate. Logan heard light, quick footsteps coming closer from inside before the door was jerked open.

“Oh! Highness! Your Highness! Good morning,” the occupant cried, hand fluttering over her chest, brushing at imaginary lint and stains as she reflexively checked her appearance.

“Mrs. Jones,” Logan offered kindly as she curtsied, then knelt and kissed his signet. He gently tugged her to her feet.

The attractive young widow was roughly in her thirties, and as she let him inside, he heard the laughter of children and smelled a pot of soup.

“Sire,” she began, “I would like to thank you on behalf of my children, and my late husband, Luke, for your kindness. We’ve had no more problems with the leaks in the roof since your men came to repair it.”

“Noticed that,” Logan agreed.

“Er…about the taxes,” she began. Logan held up his hand in refusal.

“No. Not to worry. I won’t take the bread out of your children’s mouth until you have a reliable source of income.” She brightened considerably.

“Thank you, sire.” Logan’s attention was diverted by a loud squeal as two children came barreling out from the bedroom into the kitchen. A boy of about five darted around the furniture, dangling a dollie over his head, just out of his younger sister’s reach. Logan was surprised at their appearance; they were dark-skinned, just like his prospective mother-in-law, Candra.

“Lucas! Abby! BEHAVE!” Jessica Jones ordered in clipped tones. They skidded to a stop and stared with round eyes at their mother’s imposing company. Just outside the cottage door, Victor peered inside, then gave them a gruff look that nearly made them retreat back the way they came.

She turned back to Logan apologetically. “I’m so sorry, sire, I-“

“No. Please. They’re enjoying themselves, and I caught you in the middle of your cooking,” Logan declared. He approached the children, who were standing bolt upright and stock still. “Are you the man of the house, son?”

“Yes,” he yelped. His sister kicked him and whispered something in his ear. “Yes, sire,” he corrected himself. Logan nodded solemnly.

“Are you taking care of your mother?”

He nodded meekly.

“Are you doing your chores?”

“Papa taught me how to fish,” he provided. 

“Hm,” Logan murmured. “That’s a big responsibility.”

“I can do it. I can catch a lot of fish, sire!”

“Me, too!” his sister chimed in. Behind Logan’s back, their mother flushed and bit back a hint of a smile, then composed herself.

Logan knelt and hunkered down before them and inspected each one, taking their hands in his. He noticed their nails were short, clean and neat. Their clothing had scant, patched holes but were impeccably clean and free of stains. Abby’s hair was braided in tight plaits, no mean feat since her locks were bushy and coarse like her father’s.

“Are you keeping your brother in line?” She giggled. Logan hadn’t cracked a smile once, but he reached out and tweaked her nose. Abby nodded, then hugged her rescued dollie to her chest.

The children stirred a low current of yearning in his heart, and oh, how it hurt.

Logan stood and sighed. “Mrs. Jones?”

“Yes, sire? May I get you anything? Have you broke your fast yet?”

“Could you spare a piece of that good bread?” She automatically hurried to her pine table and began to slice off generous portions. While she poured him a glass of milk, she kept up a string of chatter.

“It’s been so hard, keeping the house in order and in good repair since I lost my man, sire. But there are many things that I can do to earn a living, if need be.”

“Have you any family?”

“My husband’s brother, Daniel Rand. But none left of my own. He already has a wife and children.”

“I see.” Jessica was young yet, and still desirable. Logan’s main concern was that she was a likely target, if anyone wanted to take advantage of the fact that she was a woman living alone.

They spoke a while longer. Abby dutifully retrieved Logan’s empty dishes and took them away.

“Lovely child,” Logan remarked. Jessica blushed and ducked her head, but that gesture didn’t hide her smile.

“I adore them. They’re all I have.”

“They’re a treasure. And they must be taken care of. I know you will continue to do an excellent job of it, and I intend to help.” Logan rose from his seat and took her hands in his. “They’ll go to school.” She gasped. “I’ll furnish their tuition. I’m also opening an account in your name at the local tailor’s and the mercantile. They’ll provide you with whatever you need for their schooling and well-being, clothes, books, you name it.”

Logan was the one who flushed uncomfortably when she instantly dropped to her knees again, this time kissing his hand so profusely he had to ask her politely to stop.

Once he took his leave, Logan and Victor continued their rounds.

“I take it ya didn’t make her pay her tax again.”

“Ya knew I wouldn’t,” he reminded him.

“Soft touch.”

“Say it a little louder, why don’tcha.”

“Kids had ya wrapped around their little fingers.”

“Ya wouldn’t have stood a chance yerself.”

“Naw. Probably not.” Then Victor sobered. “How’s she gonna manage?”

“What’s the point in bein’ prince if ya can’t use yer connections?”

The rest of his day didn’t yield as many satisfying results. Logan spent the afternoon listening to his residents wrangle with him, begging him, pleading with him, conveniently lying to him and so on, and so forth. He received a generous sum of taxes overall and issued writs of promise to several homes who were slightly late and willing to pay.

Victor took mixed enjoyment from his profession when Logan called on him to enforce the rule of the land regarding citizen conduct. Logan had no patience for domestic abuse.

He stood aside when Victor pushed his way into a humble, crumbling shack and hauled a tall, rangy man out by the scruff of his neck.

“Yer wife asked ya nicely ta stop,” he growled as he kicked him into a murky, fetid water trough.

“She wouldn’t mind me-…uuuurrrgghhk!”

“Perhaps it’s because she’s exhausted,” Logan pointed out. The wife in question sat huddled in the corner while her son daubed at a cut across her cheek with a dirty rag. His eyes were too old for his face, and they held a hard gleam of one already jaded from what his life had to offer so far. “Son?”

“Yes, sire?”

“He won’t hurt her again.” His shoulders relaxed and some of the tension left the corners of his mouth. “Or you.”

“Thank…you, Highness,” his mother said. She attempted to rise, but Logan interrupted her efforts, instead helping her into her chair. “Please, how can I serve you?”

“I think I’ve underserved you,” he said gruffly. “How long has this been going on?”

“He’s not always like this!”

“Can you tell me how long?” he prodded, brows drawing together.

“Nay, sire. It’s always been this way,” her son said. When Logan attempted to look him in the eye, he bowed his face in shame.

Logan came out of the shabby home just soon enough to stop Victor from drowning the boy’s father in the trough.

“Does it make ya feel big ta beat a woman? Someone smaller than ya?” It was almost laughable; Victor topped the man by more than a head. He pulled him back up, hair shining with slimy water that was running in runnels from his nose and the corners of his mouth. His eyes were huge, bloodshot and terrified, and Logan smelled alcohol on his breath when he drew close.

“It’s tax time,” Logan said, too softly.

“I d-don’t h-have it, s-sire,” he insisted, teeth chattering.

“Oh, I know why you don’t have it,” he assured him. “I can also see why your son doesn’t have shoes for his feet and why your lovely wife is missing a tooth. You sicken me.”

“S-sire…?”

“You’re going to dry yourself off. Then you’re going to dry yourself out. Victor, take him to the constable.” Logan suppressed a wince at the sound of his wife’s wail from inside, but he heard a hint of relief in her tone, too.

Logan came back inside. “Your tax can wait.” He spoke to the boy over his mother’s head while she sobbed. He had his arms wrapped protectively and awkwardly around her. “You’re the man of the house for now.”

“For how long?” He didn’t sound as scared as he did resigned, as though he knew, even hoped this day would come.

“As long as you need. Expect a visit from my court’s physician this evening. Have you any family?”

“My grandpa. Ma’s pa.”

“Do you like him?” His face brightened.

“He hasn’t seen me for a long time. I’ve gotten big since then.”

“Send for him. I’ll be in touch. Whatever it takes for you to stay with him for a while, or for him to come here, it’ll be done.” Logan reached into his belt pouch and pressed two silver coins into the boy’s hand. “For supper.” The conspicuous lack of cooking smells told Logan they hadn’t anything to eat that day, and the boy’s eyes shone with hunger.

*

Clementine had little tolerance for charm. However, it depended on the method of delivery.

“Why hasn’t anyone snapped ya up yet, chere?”

“Stop!” she giggled. Giggled. Logan would have been appalled to hear his normally no-nonsense housekeeper and royal chef carrying on like that.

Remy charmed his way downstairs, carried down with only slight difficulty – and much enthusiasm – by Pietro and Jean-Paul. He sat at the head of the long dining table as she ladled him a bowl of bisque.

“Don’ tell Remy ya haven’t had more offers than ya can count?”

“Oh, your Highness!” She swatted him playfully with her serving towel. He smiled disarmingly, and his ruby eyes held a glint of mischief. Clementine continued to fuss over him, unfolding his napkin for him and buttering one of the warm rolls she served along with the soup.

Remy silently wondered how Prince James would react to his interpretation of “staying put.” As nice as his host’s bedchamber was, Remy was bored silly and longed for more human contact, above and beyond the occasional servant peering around the doorframe to stare at him. And Jean-Paul and Pietro had a gleam in their eyes that promised mischief and a more visceral reaction from Logan if he caught them again attempting to “groom” him. Not that it would have been a bad way to while away an afternoon. Both young men were quite striking, and admittedly, their hands felt decadent as they roamed over his body, but Remy craved a challenge, namely someone who wouldn’t fawn and swoon over him, somehow…

The past few months had been tiresome and fruitless.

The procession of prospective brides made Remy’s head spin. Princesses, duchesses, countesses and other noblewomen of varying pedigree came by carriage to his parents’ court when he wasn’t sent to their respective homes himself. Remy grew as weary of entertaining them on the palace grounds as he did of constantly telling his servants to pack his trunks or prepare his carriage for the journeys.

At least there had been a variety, he mused.

Giggly. Bland. Serious. Nervous. Coy. Not so coy. Obvious. Blonde. Buxom. Slight. Pinched. Nasal. Shrill…perhaps his least favorite flavor, he had to admit. Braying. Shy. Flirtatious. Lovely yet vapid. Homely yet willing to please.

Each visit followed the same script. In rolled the carriage through the gates. Out rolled the red carpet. Out stepped the princess/duchess/whatnot and up she came, simpering and waving the entire way to an anxious crowd.

Inevitably his eyes would glaze over as soon as they opened their mouths. They mistook it for rapt interest.

His mother’s reactions were a helpful meter of each woman’s performance. He rated them on a scale of “promising” to “appalling” based on Candra’s expressions over dinner. He nearly choked on a mouthful of meat and gravy when she made cutting motions across her neck as one described her ideal husband as being someone “who will pamper me.” She’d already lost him at “good listener.”

The determining factor that made or broke their chances with no variation was Etienne. To their credit, most of his brides came equipped with the knowledge that Remy was not only a widow, but a father. Unfortunately, not all of them were blessed with anything resembling a nurturing instinct. Many of them were either the youngest daughter of their families or were the only child, both equally dispensable during a time when it was more fortuitous to have a son.

Etienne made himself scarce with little prompting. The first few encounters sent him scampering back to his play room or to the castle’s library to hide himself amongst the dusty, leather-bound volumes. He was a bright child, precocious, sharp and easily as handsome as his father.

He abhorred their fingers pinching his cheeks and their overwhelmingly sweet perfume. Etienne missed his mother so much that any other woman occupying his mother’s rooms or using her things was a sacrilege. Much worse was the sight of any of these female interlopers crowding his father’s personal space or laying their hands on him. That was simply unforgivable, punishable by small objects that flew suspiciously out of nowhere and, coincidentally, or even “accidentally” pelted the target…nay, the princess…on the bum.

Etienne didn’t want a new mother. He merely wanted his mother. In lieu of that, he wanted to see his father happy, even if that meant being happy with only Etienne in his life. That was just the way it had to be, he reasoned in his seven-year-old mind.

At the moment, his father missed him fiercely.

*

Remy sat patiently and graciously as Paige spooned soup into his mouth teasingly, mischief written in her blue eyes. Clementine was conveniently ensconced in the kitchen, already making a blackberry buckle when he “innocently” suggested it was his favorite pastry.

Remy didn’t even look up at the sound of a heavy door creaking open and thudding shut, followed by heavy footsteps.

“You have a little dab of soup right there, sire,” Paige murmured dreamily.

“Here?” Remy used his “bad” arm and pointed to a random spot on his chin.

“No.” She giggled, flicking her eyes over the spot in question, then staring at him through her lashes.

“Here?” He tried again.

“Here,” she said, deciding he was hopeless, but perhaps not as helpless as he let on. She tugged his napkin from his collar and daubed the spot by the corner of his mouth.

“Is it gone, chere?”

“Ooh.” She pouted. “Not…quite. Here, let me…” She licked her fingertip and took the liberty of gently rubbing the now imaginary soup droplet from his skin, enjoying the hint of stubble there. It made him look deliciously rugged and male.

“Better?”

“Almost…sire…” His ruby eyes entranced her. His voice was so silky and it thrummed through her veins, stroking her. His lips were so close, so tempting, and her eyes began to drift shut as his warm breath steam-

“OFF!”

Paige’s gasp was sharp and she whirled back from the table, nearly falling over a chair beside her in the process. She clotheslined herself over the top of it and caught herself before she could fall the rest of the way to the floor. Her blue eyes were round marbles of shock and fear.

She was staring into the eyes of an angered beast who wore her future king’s armored chest plate and dark boots. His nostrils flared and his chest heaved, massive as a bear’s. His hands were fisted and white-knuckled, and if she didn’t know she was staring at Prince James, Paige swore he would have surely struck her.

“OUT!”

“Highness-“

“OUT! NOW!”

“He needed help…soup,” she offered meekly. His arm whipped out toward the door, finger stabbing the way for her to follow.

“Kitchen. Now. Go.” She gathered up her apron and full skirts and ran. She remembered herself at the door, however, turning to curtsy and back her way out.

“Red as a damned beet,” Remy marveled, whistling low.

“What…the hell d’ya think yer doin’ down here, seducin’ my cook’s scullery girl?”

Remy shrugged. With his good hand, he gracefully lifted his half-empty bowl.

“Soup?”


	7. Let Me Entertain You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan runs into a few more challenges as host. A young guest unwittingly breaks the ice between him and Remy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: *sigh* It’s just gonna get sillier. This is diverting from the original fairy tale “The Long Nosed Princess” somewhat (not just because it’s slash), since the princess and prince were the only real central characters in that story. But, whatever. I’m the boss in charge, a claim I’ll make even if this sucks. *ducks rotten tomatoes

Queen Eliza’s gown rustled and flapped behind her as she hurried down the hall to her son’s makeshift chamber. Her knock was brisk, and the small scroll in her hand felt like it was burning her, wanting to be passed on to its intended recipient as quickly as possible.

She heard a scuffle inside, then her son’s characteristic heavy footsteps as he answered the door. He looked mildly disheveled, with one half of his hair combed and shining with pomade. Behind him, Jean-Paul was tutting and brandishing a hairbrush.

“Sire, I’m not finished!”

“That’ll be enough out of you,” Logan snarled over his shoulder, before he faced his mother. His face settled into only slightly more agreeable lines for her sake. Eliza chuckled.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Good for some,” Logan muttered, but he leaned over the threshold and kissed her soft cheek. She reached up and patted his fondly. 

“Here.”

“What is it?” He took the scroll and noticed the pink wax seal was already broken.

“We’re due to have more company soon.”

“Who?”

“Read it. I’ll give you some time to get settled. See you at breakfast.”

“Mother-“

“Button yourself together, James!” she admonished, giving his arm a little slap. “Take care of him, Jean-Paul.”

“Easier said than done, Majesty.” Logan’s sigh was long-suffering as his mother swept out and his valet nearly strong-armed him back into the room, shutting the door before Logan could escape.

He nudged him back into his chair and continued to work on his hair, enjoying the thick, soft feel of it as he ran his fingers through it.

“Yer enjoyin’ yerself too much,” Logan groused as he impatiently unrolled the scroll.

“I live to please, and to serve, sire.”

“Maybe I should buy ya a little dog for ya ta boss around and fuss over.”

“Hmmph…” Jean-Paul rolled his eyes and shook his head as he brushed the stubborn hair into submission. At least his hands felt good.

Pietro was elsewhere in the house, helping to freshen Logan’s own bedroom. Right now, it was Remy’s quarters, as Logan had chosen the path of least resistance and moved out for the duration of the prince’s visit. He was on the mend, but his presence was unsettling and he and Logan constantly rubbed each other the wrong way. Being in close quarters didn’t help. Logan spent any time they shared in the room practically forcing his hands to stay in his pockets, to avoid errantly, absently caressing him or just smacking him outright.

He needed time to breathe and center himself. The past two days found Logan throwing himself into his duties, checking on local crops and speaking with law officials about his townspeople’s safety and well-being. He also spent time hunting with Victor, and his bodyguard was pleased as punch to be included in the offer, since he took lusty enjoyment in the pursuit and the kill. It felt good to be out in the open air, breathing in the scent of the pines and loam and running Maverick until the horse was almost lathered after their prey.

Logan felt restless and craved more time outside, or at the inn with his companions. But he wouldn’t abandon his guest, even if he was by turns cranky or derisive.

But now, his eyes roved over the letter, unfamiliar with the elegant handwriting.

 

James,

I would like to extend my thanks for your continued hospitality toward my son, and the excellent care I know you’ve been giving him. My husband and I have been concerned for his health, and we are grateful that you have kept him within the walls of your lavish home all this time.

My concern now is his son, my grandson Etienne. He’s young and particularly vulnerable in light of the fact that his mother was taken from us upon his birth. His father is his entire world, and they are both ours.

I would like to propose that Etienne be allowed to see his father, perhaps even stay with you during Remy’s recovery. I don’t wish to inconvenience you in anyway, James, but I feel that it is in the lad’s best interest to be near his father while he is recuperating.

He is a charming, bright, beautiful child, and is also exceedingly well behaved. He will pose no trouble.

I look forward to your response. We are anxious to reunite our son with his child.

Candra’s signature was delicately curved at the bottom of the page.

“You look troubled, sire.”

“Get another guest suite ready.”

“Why?”

“We’re havin’ more company. And Prince Remy’ll be stayin’ with us a while longer.”

Mentally, Jean-Paul cheered.

Logan caught the gleam in his valet’s light blue eyes.

“Get that thought outta yer head, bub.”

*

Remy lay in bed, propped up on several pillows and reading. He felt stronger today, but too much exertion still wore him out, and it wasn’t easy sleeping in someone else’s bed. He missed the comfort of his own chamber, and he missed the sound of his son’s breathing and the warm, scant bulk of his body curled up against him whenever he ran to his father’s room in the middle of the night to escape the boogey man.

The only consolation to be had was not having to make himself handsome for any prospective brides or put on airs for their entertainment. It wasn’t for lack of effort on Jean-Paul and Pietro’s part, however. They still fawned over him, perhaps more so now that Logan wasn’t sharing his quarters, but they still darted off in separate directions when Logan returned to check on him.

The burly prince seemed to have that effect on his staff…

The night in the dining room had yielded interesting results, and that was how Remy ended up the lone occupant of the prince’s chamber.

*

A wise man wouldn’t have provoked Logan in his current state.

His chest was heaving as though he was out of breath. Clearly, he was in a fit of pique. His dark eyes held a dangerous glint, and they pinned Remy in his seat.

“Soup?” Remy inquired, voice smooth and rich as syrup.

Logan peered down at the half-empty bowl, then back up at Remy.

Remy was glad he was holding the plate, or it would have bounced off the table. Logan banged his fists against the elegant cherrywood, making the silverware clatter. Out of the corner of his eye, Remy saw Jubilee and Paige scamper out of the doorway.

“So this is how yer gonna spend yer time? Distractin’ my staff? Gettin’ up outta bed when yer still not well?”

“Feelin’ better,” Remy sniffed, shrugging.

Logan fumed. His scowl was dark and he ran his hand through his hair in frustration, a gesture Remy was beginning to associate with him.

“Have ya had that dressing changed yet?” Logan’s tone was accusing, more than unfriendly.

“Non.” He wouldn’t tell him that his leg throbbed slightly. He hadn’t thought to ask Clem if she could help prop it somehow before she lumbered back into the kitchen. But Logan read his body language and saw the strain cross his features, flirtatious smile evaporating as he winced.

“Ya’ve overdone it!” he flared.

“Remy’ll be fine. Don’t get yerself in a lather, Prince James.” Remy was pushing his seat back from the table with some difficulty.

Logan was having none of it.

“Don’t tell me how not ta get,” he muttered on a snarl. “Yer gonna slow yer healing if ya keep messin’ around and go too fast.”

It was on the tip of Remy’s tongue to tell him that he couldn’t speed his healing fast enough to leave this blasted place, but Logan left him little room to argue.

His hands were on him, hoisting from his seat.

“What de hell…?”

“UP!” Logan barked as he shouldered himself beneath Remy’s arm and anchored him firmly against him. Logan’s arm clamped around his narrow, firm waist and he assisted him back toward the staircase. Remy was barely supporting his own weight at all as Logan practically dragged him where he wanted to take him.

“Dis ain’t necessary,” he pointed out, irritated.

“The hell it ain’t.”

“So, what? Jus’ gonna lock me away until I’m well?”

“Don’t tempt me. It ain’t nice ta tease someone with what they don’t have a prayer of gettin’, Highness.” Remy briefly stumbled, banking his foot on the stairs.

“Merde!” Pain lanced up his leg, and Logan felt guilty.

“Hold on,” he chided him. Logan took a different tack. He grunted as he rearranged Remy, sweeping his arm beneath his legs and scooping him up. They were a comic sight as he climbed the stairs, carrying the much taller prince, who was cursing and gaping at him like he’d grown a third eye.

It wasn’t easy. Remy was injured, but he wasn’t weak. He struggled against him, feeling awkward with his long calves dangling over Logan’s arm.

“Ya’ve gotta be kiddin’,” Remy hissed.

“Quit fidgetin’, we’re almost there,” Logan said impatiently. “You’re not exactly light, despite the fact that ya look so skinny anyone’d think they could snap ya like a twig.” He flinched as Remy clouted him with his fist.

“Who’re ya callin’ ‘skinny?’”

“I didn’t say puny,” Logan huffed. Remy glared at him then.

“Guess anyone’s puny when ya built like a tree trunk,” Remy muttered under his breath.

“It’s part of my charm. I ain’t short, I’m ‘sturdy,’” Logan corrected him crisply. Nonplussed, he stalked back to his bedroom and kicked open the door.

He deposited Remy more gently than he wanted to. “Where’s the salve?” he demanded gruffly. Remy pointed to his vanity.

“Over dere, where yer valet left it.”

“Bet he was all over himself ta help ya with it,” Logan grumbled to himself.

“What wuz dat, mec?”

“Nuthin’…”

Remy laid up on his elbows, watching Logan as he opened the jar of salve and stalked over to the bed with a length of bandage and a couple of rags. He poured some water from a pitcher into a small bowl, one Pietro thoughtfully left for the purpose of Remy’s ablutions. 

He set the items on the side table and his hands were on Remy again, rearranging his pillows and the prince himself above them. Remy felt like a doll in the hands of an errant child.

“What de hell d’ya t’ink yer doin’?”

“Yer leg needs ta be propped up, right?”

“Um…yeah.”

“Then I’m proppin’ it up,” Logan explained snappishly as he took a thick, finely upholstered bolster and tucked it beneath one of the fluffy bed pillows, then grasped Remy’s ankle from underneath, careful not to jar the tender muscle. Remy still sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, but Logan laid his calf down, and it was a more comfortable angle so his blood flow wouldn’t pool in the sore limb the way it did when he was sitting upright. He sighed in relief and closed his eyes.

“Ya overdid it,” Logan grumbled sourly as he began unwrapping the soiled bandage. Remy’s pantsleg was rolled above his knee, giving Logan easier access to his injury. The wound had begun to scab nicely, but the lacerations and bruises were still an angry purple. Logan ran his fingertips over the wound, carefully probing it.

“Does it still pain ya? Are ya havin’ a hard time with it?”

“Oui,” Remy admitted, breathing in short sips through his lips. Logan was right; he had overdone it.

“Might help if ya behaved yerself.”

“Where’s de fun in dat?”

“You’re just all about fun,” Logan muttered.

“T’ink so, eh?” Remy narrowed his eyes at Logan, but Logan ignored it as he dipped a rag in the cool water and deftly wrung it out. The first contact of the damp cloth against his leg made Remy hiss in discomfort, but eventually cooling the wound helped, numbing the pain. Logan was unfailingly gentle, something that still surprised Remy, when he seemed so gruff and hard on the surface.

Logan swabbed the cloth over Remy’s tender flesh carefully, cleansing the wound. He made a thoughtful sound in his throat.

“Yer feet are cold. Why arentcha wearin’ any slippers?” Logan accused.

“Someone knocked ‘em off my feet when I was dragged back upstairs,” Remy countered, amused. Logan could have sworn Remy stuck out his tongue at him when he wasn’t looking, but he was focused on cleaning his injury, mouth set in grim lines.

“Yer healin’ nicely,” he remarked casually. “Ya won’t hafta stay here too much longer if yer arm follows suit. And yer fever’s gone.”

“Mebbe it’s cuz ya scared it away. Ya were awfully hard on yer scullery girl downstairs, mec.”

“She was dawdling. And ya were distractin’ her. Not everyone has the time ta just wait on ya hand an’ foot.”

“That’s why they’re called servants,” Remy reminded him. Logan looked annoyed.

“That how ya spend yer time in yer own palace?”

“What’s it t’you how Remy spends his time at his own castle?”

“Nuthin’. That’s what it is t’me.”

“Good.”

“Fine.” Logan opened the jar of salve and scooped out a generous amount. He spread it over Remy’s wound, careful not to apply too much pressure. Remy sighed in relief, settling back into the pillows.

Logan ran his fingers absently over the scar. “This might not even leave a mark. That oughta make ya happy.” Remy cracked open one eye.

“Ecstatic,” he murmured, then closed it again. Logan huffed and wiped his hands on a dry hand towel.

Remy moaned in pain. Logan frowned in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Cramp. Been in bed too long.”

“Where?”

“Foot,” he complained.”

“Hn,” Logan grunted and examined his foot. There was nothing wrong with it at first glance as he turned it slightly, trying not to jar his leg.

“Gimme a sec.” Logan rewound a clean length of bandage around his calf and tied it in place, tucking in the ends. “There. Don’t let it get reinfected.”

“Oui, Maman,” Remy quipped. He sobered briefly. “Shoulda been someone’s mot’er,” he said.

“Like that’ll ever happen,” Logan said sourly. “Dream on.” He took Remy’s foot and began to knead it, pressing his thumbs into the ball. Remy gasped, then let out a shuddering breath. “That hurt?”

“Non.”

“Want me ta keep goin’?”

“Please.”

“Yer wish is my command, Highness,” Logan said, not too mockingly as he continued to work on his limb. He massaged and kneaded it, finding pressure points and releasing adhesions in his muscles that Remy didn’t know he had. The momentary pain as he released those knots in his leg fled him, leaving behind the sensation of being completely relaxed.

Remy’s low groan and the expression of rapture on his face socked Logan in the gut. His body reacted fiercely to that sound and the way Remy’s body arched in the bed, looking far too much like a man aroused.

Logan’s mouth went dry, removing his ability to form speech.

Instead his hands made the decision for him, lingering on Remy’s flesh as he switched to the other foot, gently tugging each toe, curling them over the crook of his finger to flex them more easily and remove more of the tension.

It was difficult to remove his hands, not when Remy was so relaxed and no longer ribbing him, when his eyes were closed and not full of derision, mocking him.

Logan fell in tune with Remy’s body’s needs, of what kind of touch evoked a certain reaction, feeling every slight twitch and the beat of his pulse. His skin was smooth, warming beneath his hands, despite Logan’s accusation that the younger prince’s feet were chilled.

A brief flash of Pietro and Jean-Paul came to him then, the way lust clouded their features as they ministered to him in the bath.

Logan released his foot and jerked back. The way the mattress bounced slightly beneath them made Remy flinch and smack his lips in his sleep.

He rose from the bed and carefully pulled up the blankets, covering Remy’s chilled feet. When he tucked the covers in over his shoulders, Remy snuggled more deeply within them. Logan felt a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment that he was sound asleep again, complicated even further when Remy leaned into his touch as he smoothed a tendril of hair back from his cheek.

Logan had to get the hell out of there.

He closed the door quietly behind him and slipped down the corridor to the servants’ wing.

His knock on Jean-Paul and Pietro’s door was brisk. They looked surprised see him when they opened the door.

Pietro put down a shirt that he was folding. “How can we assist you, sire?”

“A room. Make up the guest room in my wing. Tonight. Now.”

“Sire, is someone coming?”

“No. It’s for me.”

“Whatever for? Sire, is there something wrong with your chamber? Is it not clean enough, does your bed need freshening?” Jean-Paul inquired, already building up to panic that they were remiss in their domestic duties.

“It’s simply too small for two.” They frowned slightly. “His Highness would perhaps prefer more room to stretch his legs. Being in such close quarters for the duration of his stay would perhaps not be wise.”

“Forgive me for being so bold, sire…”

“It’s never stopped ya before, ta tell ya as much,” Logan interjected.”

“Ahem. Yes. Sire, you’ve been rather…protective of his majesty. One would think you wouldn’t want to venture too far away to care for him.”

“One might think,” Logan said through gritted teeth. “Make up the chamber. Bring over some of my things in a trunk, make up a fire and make sure I have linens. I won’t need anything else that I can’t bring over in the morning.”

“As you wish, sire,” Pietro chimed in. Logan read concern in both pairs of blue eyes, but he turned on his heel and left.

*

Two mornings later, Logan stood outside, roused by Paige and Jubilee to come to the courtyard. Logan’s sentry on his castle walls gave the signal that the carriage from Shade and Sweet Water was approaching.

Remy’s son’s arrival wasn’t greeted with the same fanfare as his father. Logan didn’t want the child to feel overly scrutinized or overwhelmed by all the attention. Several of Logan’s staff came outside to greet him, including Annalee and Artie. The boy was excited, tugging on his mother’s hands.

“Look, Mama, look!”

“Calm down,” she chided, close to swatting him.

“It’s a carriage! The prince is coming!”

“I know!” she snapped. “Don’t point, it’s not polite.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough,” Logan offered, and Artie broke away from his mother and hugged him around the waist. “Oof!” The boy was growing like a weed, he silently marveled, and he didn’t know his own strength. Logan smiled down at him fondly.

“D’you think he’ll wanna play with us?”

“Maybe we’ll let him get settled in first,” Logan suggested. Artie was excited, however, and Logan suppressed a sigh, knowing he would practically tackle the first occupant who stepped out of that carriage.

The carriage pulled to a stop just within the gates. From outside, Logan could hear the scuffle within, and he frowned, wondering about the delay.

The footman opened the door, and a petite, peevish-looking older woman stepped out, scowling at her surroundings. She wore dark, simple clothes. Her gown was made of muslin and she wore a lace-trimmed cap on her head. Logan assumed she was a member of King Jean-Luc’s staff, perhaps a governess? Before Logan could catch her eye, she spun around at the sound of low shouts inside the carriage. She began to climb back inside and Logan saw a struggle ensuing between her and whomever was just inside the door.

She backed out of the carriage with a kicking, shouting child roughly Artie’s age. The lad was determined to give her hell and was succeeding admirably.

“I hate it here! I want PAPA!”

“Hold your tongue!” Logan heard her hiss.

“NO! I WANT PAPA, NOW!” He tugged his hands from her grasp. When she made an attempt to take hold of him again, he rounded and kicked her in the shin. She howled in pain and doubled over, nursing her injured limb.

Logan was appalled. Annalee stood beside him, aghast.

“Mama, he kicked that lady,” Artie pointed out. “He wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“Hush, darling,” she murmured, but silently she agreed with her son, holding more tightly onto his hand, as though she could shield him from the likely bad influence of their new guest.

The boy ran toward the entrance of the castle, about to book past the assembled staff.

Logan stepped into his path, and the boy froze in his tracks.

Logan’s eyes roamed over the boy, and he was amazed at what he saw.

He was Remy’s spitting image, and he even had his father’s beautiful eyes, except where his father’s held a wicked gleam, Etienne’s had a sharp yet innocent clarity. They were also slightly frightened at his unfamiliar surroundings. His hair was down to his shoulder blades, and it had been clubbed back from his face for the journey. It was the same deep chestnut as his father’s, but had more auburn highlights, telling Logan that he liked to play outdoors. There was a spray of freckles across his pert nose.

He wore his kingdom’s colors, like his father, except his tunic was white with black sleeves and had the crest embroidered in crimson. Identical black leather boots shod his feet. He was tall for his age and slender, arms and legs reed-thin.

“Where do ya think yer goin’, bub?”

Several emotions flitted over the boy’s face.

“Wasn’t nice, kickin’ that nice lady like that.”

“She isn’t nice,” Etienne argued.

“Don’t matter. Ya wouldn’t want yer father ta see ya actin’ like that.”

“I can act however I want!” he insisted. Before Logan could react, the boy was off and running again.

“Now see here, ya can’t just-“

Logan’s words were cut off as Etienne made his way to the edge of the palace lawn. He picked up an enormous rock and hurled it.

His aim was true. He caught Logan right between the eyes.

He roared in pain, cursing unbecomingly for a prince greeting his guest.

“Mama?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Logan just said a bad word.” Annalee wisely shushed Artie and watched as Jean-Paul and Pietro hurried forward to help their sovereign.


	8. One More Thing on the List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy and Logan get to know each other grudgingly…and eventually, willingly. But Etienne doesn’t make it easy for either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: My last chapter was accidentally deleted when my daughter decided to play her games on my Internet, and she closed down my program window for my Word doc. Trying to rebuild what I lost was a frustrating experience, so I hope this fills in any gaps.

“Aren’t you a sight,” Hank muttered over the brim of his tankard. Bobby’s eyes bulged as Logan took his customary place at their table.

“I thought Victor was supposed to be your bodyguard,” Warren tutted. “He isn’t doing a very good job.”

“Apparently, he didn’t know his duties would involve guarding my hide from seven year old boys.”

“Come again?”

“Kid’s quick. Aim’s good, too. Too good.”

“Shit,” Bobby cursed. “Two. Not just one black eye, but two.”

Warren’s lips twitched. Hank made an odd sound in his tankard and averted his dark blue eyes. Bobby had no such reserve.

“…*snerk*…mmph…hmpppphhh-pppfftttt…” His breath exploded into sniggers, and his face hurt from trying to wipe the grin off his face. Logan glared at him, his dark eyes promising bloody murder, but Bobby couldn’t help himself.

“He caught me off-guard.”

Bobby was cackling, slapping his knees, perhaps even howling, if Logan had to describe it. And he planned to describe it in detail as he explained to the undertaker why he killed one of his best friends at the inn that night.

In the meantime, the whisky helped anesthetize the bruises and his wounded pride. Logan sat back and stared at his companions, one after the other, knowing he presented a pitiful sight.

Smack dab between his eyes, Logan sported an angry red scar that practically bisected his forehead in two. The flesh of his shaggy dark brows was puffy, making them more prominent and sitting out in sharp relief. Victor told him it made him look like a Neanderthal of old.

The resulting bruising against the bridge of his nose spread beneath his eyes, ringing them in angry, violet broken capillaries. Logan looked as though he’d been in a fight with several grown men and lost.

All thanks to one petulant little boy and his rock.

“How is the boy now?” Hank asked.

“Raisin’ hell,” Logan told him. “He’s busy. Always hidin’, runnin’ or gettin’ into everything.” Candra’s description of him as well-behaved rang false in Logan’s mind, making him expel an exasperated breath. Frustration made his whisky taste too good. He motioned to the innkeeper for another round.

The past three days since his arrival were a trial.

The worst of it all? Etienne despised Logan on first sight. It wasn’t an auspicious beginning.

Etienne’s governess, who merely went by Nanny, was having as little success reigning him in. She was older and wore owlish reading glasses, and she had strong opinions about bed time and lessons. To Etienne’s credit, he was a bright student, fluent as his father was in French and he loved history and science.

Logan periodically watched him from doorways or windows. He didn’t want to intrude, but curiosity always got the best of him. His mannerisms and gestures were so much like his father’s. Logan wondered what kind of woman his mother must have been, what qualities she gave her son.

But in the meantime, the brat still hated him. Logan was at a loss.

Logan took only one consolation in his current predicament. It was a pleasure to see how happy Etienne was when he was finally, first reunited with his father.

*

Logan staggered inside, pride more injured than his face. Pietro and Jean-Paul hurried to his side, eyes wide and mouths agape.

“Sire!” Jean-Paul cried.

“What happened?” Pietro breathed, gingerly reaching out to touch Logan’s forehead. He fanned his hand away.

“Our houseguest happened. Which way did he go?”

“That woman rounded him up and dragged him off. Paige showed her to the guest quarters, sire. It’s been aired and made up, Highness,” Jean-Paul informed him. “Sire, you’re bleeding!” Logan’s shirt was a lost cause. Jean-Paul was grateful that it was one of his serviceably homespun tunics instead of his white silk or lawn that both grooms kept in impeccable condition.

Logan retreated to his temporary quarters and sat on his bed, waiting for Leonard to arrive. He held a rag as firmly as he could tolerate against the bridge of his nose to staunch the flow of blood.

Jubilee’s knock was timid. “Are you all right, sire?”

“Ask me again in an hour, sweetheart.”

She cleared her throat. “His Highness is asking after you.”

“My father?”

“No. His Majesty, the prince.” That caught Logan’s attention. 

“Does he know his son has arrived?”

“Aye.”

“Good.”

“But he would like you to come to his quarters. Your quarters,” she corrected herself.

“I’m a bit indisposed right now.”

“I explained that to him.”

“So he knows what that entails, right?” He waved her away. “Tell him I will come by and see him once I’m ready. No sooner.” Logan needed a chance to collect himself.

Jubilee vanished in a swirl of plain brown skirts. Logan was grateful to be alone for a few minutes.

Leonard showed up a few minutes later, armed with his medicine pouch.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Highness.” Logan glared at him like a wet cat. His family physician chuckled and began cleaning his wound. Logan had already removed his ruined shirt, giving him a better chance to work without having to worry about spilling any of his salves on Logan’s clothing.

The cut was deep. Logan hardly winced as Leonard stitched the jagged edges of flesh together with needle-thin thong. Logan sighed in regret.

“I was hopin’ things would’ve gone a little smoother than this.”

“Perhaps the mite is nervous about being in a new place. Or he just misses his father, and he can’t help acting out.” Jubilee knocked again, then hovered inside the doorway when Leonard broke away from his task.

“Sire?” she inquired nervously, twisting her apron in her hands. “His Majesty would dearly like an audience with you.” She swallowed. “Now.”

Logan scowled darkly, even though it hurt, pulling at his stitches. Jubilee thought it made him look more intimidating, now that the bruises were beginning to develop under his eyes as well, making them appear more sunken in his face. He resembled a vengeful spectre. Logan stood, and she averted her eyes at the sight of his bare chest. A flush rose up her cheeks and she felt a slight flutter in the pit of her stomach. Dimly she wondered why Prince Remy couldn’t perhaps reconsider his choice to reject Logan as a consort.

Logan dug in his trunk for a suitable shirt, this one made of gray hemp cloth. He shoved his arms into it and left his chamber without buttoning it up.

“He didn’t let me wrap it,” Leonard complained.

“Looks like it hurts.”

“Aye, lass.” Logan’s hurts ran more than skin deep. Leonard packed up his pouches and left Logan a pain-relieving salve on the vanity.

Logan strode back to his chamber and knocked briskly, feeling foolish for having to do so.

“Entre-vous,” Remy ordered curtly. Logan swept open the door. 

The sight before him took the wind out of his sails.

Etienne was fast asleep, curled up on his father’s lap, back rising and falling with his gusting breaths. What moved Logan was the boy’s face, still visible where the top of his head was tucked beneath his father’s chin. His cheeks were blotchy and tearstained, but his lips held a faint smile, and his expression was completely peaceful. He clutched at his father’s shirt even in sleep, as though he was afraid to let him go. Remy stared down at him and kissed the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his hair.

Logan’s face softened, and he leaned back against the doorframe, arms folded.

“Jubilee made it sound urgent, said that ya needed ta see me.” Remy looked up sharply.

“A moment, mec.” He gently laid Etienne down on the bed beside him, grateful to let his legs uncramp themselves. Etienne moaned and smacked his lips. Remy smoothed his hair back from his cheek and laid a light coverlet over him, making his son snuggle down into the pillow.

Remy rose from the bed, then, and Logan instinctively hurried forward to help him up. Remy’s eyes were hard and his mouth was slightly mulish.

“Help me outside.”

“Ya don’t need ta go all the way downstairs.”

“Then to a different room up here,” he snapped, attempting to keep his voice low.

“Fine.” Logan assisted him down the hall, choosing to link his arm through Remy’s good one, minimizing what would have been too-tantalizing contact if their circumstances were less tense. But he felt Remy’s body go taut, as though he, too, were frustrated and unwilling to prolong their proximity or tolerate Logan’s touch.

“Where is dis?” Remy demanded as Logan pulled him inside a sparsely furnished bedroom.

“My room, for the moment,” Logan explained simply, shrugging. “Sit.” Remy took the seat by Logan’s vanity while Logan remained standing, once again standing in the doorway.

“Why wasn’t I told my son had arrived? Why didn’t anyone have the insight t’allow me ta wait for him outside?”

“You were resting,” Logan pointed out. “We only knew the approximate time of his arrival, based on word from my messagers, and my sentry announced when he appeared in my courtyard.”

“I should have been the first person he saw as soon as he climbed out of that carriage!” Remy snapped, jaw working. He ran his hand over his nape, tugging his ponytail in irritation. “He was worked up and in a state! He was so upset, and to yer credit, homme, ya have a large home. He could’ve gotten lost!”

“He could’ve, huh?”

“He’s an active young boy,” Remy said through clenched teeth. “Perhaps if ya had children of your own, mec, ya’d have some inkling of how much work goes into keeping after ‘em. They need attention.”

“That’s what his governess is for, ain’t it?” Logan reminded him. “That’s who that snappish old bat was who came with him, right?”

Remy huffed, and a hint of a smirk warred with his scowl. “Nanny,” he said.

“Okay. His nanny, then.”

“Non. Her name’s Nanny. She is his governess.”

“Pardon me for bein’ dense and uninformed,” Logan muttered.

“What, dis is funny t’you?”

“Do I look like I’m laughin’?”

Remy’s fists were balled up in his lap. “Look, if I had any choice, I wouldn’ be here. Pretty soon Etienne an’ I’ll go on our merry way, ‘specially if yer not prepared t’deal wit’ a lil’ one under yer roof.”

“Fer yer information, Highness,” Logan growled, “Etienne isn’t the only child who’s staying in my home. Ya haven’t met Artie yet, somethin’ it might’ve escaped ya ta have considered while ya were flirtin’ with my maids or runnin’ that close ta lettin’ my valets jump yer skinny ass.” Remy flushed, and he looked truly embarrassed beneath his anger.

“Dey’re your grooms,” he huffed.

“Hn.”

“Why don’tcha marry one of dem?” Remy jeered.

“That’s enough,” Logan rumbled. His voice was hard and low and he pinned Remy with eyes that brooked no nonsense. “Who I marry is my own damned business. And while yer so busy thinkin’ yer so much better than me, consider this. My mother and father brought ya here as my last resort.”

Remy’s smug look vanished.

“A squat, scruffy excuse fer a prince,” Logan added for good measure. The words tasted sour in his mouth.

“That make ya feel bigger, den?”

“Ain’t feelin’ too bad right now, considerin’,” Logan mused. He reached up to scratch his chin. His forehead throbbed. As though noticing that for the first time, Remy’s eyes flitted over the wound.

“Ya look like shit,” he murmured. “What happened?”

“Yer son’s throwin’ arm.” 

“Non. He knows his manners, he wouldna done somet’in’ like dat.”

“Kid might know his manners, but he shortened his acquaintance with ‘em as soon as I opened my mouth.”

“Damn it,” Remy muttered. He began to look a bit contrite. “He hurt you.”

“Just a scratch.” 

“Non.” Remy stood and crossed the room, wincing at the change in position. He moved too quickly for Logan to stop him and approached the doorway.

Slender fingers captured his chin, carefully turning his face to the left, then right. Remy made a sound of pity in his throat. Logan was surprised at the feel of his touch, of how cool his fingertips felt against his hot skin. He fought a faint shiver working its way up his spine and a rash of goosebumps that prickled over him. 

“Dat ain’t how my son usually behaves,” Remy insisted. Absently his fingertip traced the edge of one of Logan’s brows, which were currently knitted together in confusion. Hazel eyes dilated and he swallowed roughly. “He won’t do dat again. I swear dis.”

“Might help if I keep my distance, fer the time bein’,” Logan decided, and he ducked his head, staring at the floor before he could sink any deeper into those compelling red eyes. “But I suggest Nanny be a little more mindful of him. I want him kept in line.” 

The trance between them was broken.

Logan didn’t hold back, even as Remy shrank back from him slightly, face hardening and closing up. “Maybe ya don’t know yer son that well.”

“Ya presume too much.”

“There was a lot of anger in him when I greeted him in that courtyard.”

“He wuz scared. And maybe it’s escaped ya, but I’m all he has. And he’s ev’ry’tin’ t’me. Understand?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Ya might know what it’s like if ya had any lil’ ones of yer own,” Remy added coldly.

Logan’s expression remained bland, but Remy read hurt in his eyes. A pang of regret gnawed at him. 

“I may never know, then.” Logan nearly excused himself from the room. “Enjoy yer time with yer son.”

*

The next few days weren’t any easier. Remy’s leg healed beautifully, and there was barely a scar left on his face; the slightly darker pink skin was nearly invisible and hidden in his hairline. His arm was taking longer to mend; Leonard changed the splint, shortening it to allow him more mobility. Remy and Etienne’s time at Towering Trees was nearing its end.

For Logan, the prospect brought equal parts joy and disappointment.

Etienne was determined to spurn his efforts to get along with him. He ignored him when he invited him along with Artie to the archery field or to watch the knights practice. Etienne clung to his father whenever Artie left for his lessons, and he refused to sit for tutoring alongside the other boy.

One day, Logan strode down to the main hall, dressed for riding. Remy looked up from a story he was reading his son while Etienne munched a handful of sugared almonds.

“Where are ya headed?”

“For a ride,” he replied simply. He kept walking toward the door, as though no further explanation was forthcoming. Behind him, he heard someone scuffling up onto small feet.

“Papa! I want to ride!” he insisted. Nanny arrived at that moment, adjusting her spectacles.

“It might do him some good, sire, to get some fresh air. He’s been a trifle, er, restless.” Logan was in the middle of taking his riding gloves from Victor and was about to undo the heavy bolt from the door. His eyes flicked her way briefly, but he was determined to leave unhindered.

“Papa!” Etienne cried, pouting.

That expression was Remy’s undoing, something Etienne was well aware of. He sighed.

“Logan,” he called softly.

Logan bristled. He halted in his tracks. Victor looked annoyed.

“Can ya spare another mount?”

“I wasn’t expectin’ comp’ny.” He left it unsaid that Because your son hates me.

“Could ya rearrange yer plans?” Something in Remy’s eyes dared Logan to say no. Logan’s patience had worn so thin it was transparent.

“Vic,” he murmured.

“Aye, Highness?”

“Saddle another mount. The mare,” he said. Victor’s heavy blond brows drew together, but he swept out, intent on obeying his prince.

Several minutes later, they rode side by side, with Victor bringing up the rear. Etienne sat in front of his father, hands covering Remy’s while he guided the reins. The weather was balmy, with a faint breeze. Etienne was slightly impatient with the pace, but Remy chided him to settle down.

“Look,” Logan called, “a kit.” Etienne smiled at the sight of the small red fox as it vanished into the brush. “Ever seen one before?” Etienne ignored him.

“He asked ya a question, petit.”

“So?” he sulked.

“Guess he hasn’t, then,” Logan shrugged.

“I have too!” he cried, indignant.

“Then tell him so,” Remy suggested.

“Don’t want to,” he muttered under his breath. Logan periodically felt the boy’s glare and sighed. He abandoned hope for a pleasant ride once they left the stables.

Logan noticed after some time that Remy looked tired and his features were strained.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hurts,” he grimaced. Logan realized he meant his arm.

“Then we stop,” Logan said. He led his horse to a tall birch and dismounted, tethering it to a low branch. Victor followed suit, and he offered his help to Remy next. Etienne wasn’t cooperative.

“Papa, no! I don’t want to get down!”

“Let him help ya down. Papa needs a rest.” His son pouted again, to little effect. He allowed Victor to lift him off and set him down, gently as a feather. He assisted Remy next. Remy’s thighs and haunches were sore, and he limped slightly toward a low boulder. Logan’s first inclination was to help him, but he held back.

Etienne took the opportunity to stretch his legs as well, and he took off after a black squirrel. The creature clambered up a nearby tree. It’s chattering sounded almost angry.

Remy looked up from his musings at the light tap against his good arm. Logan stared down at him, holding out a canteen.

“Have a drink. Don’t dry yerself out.”

“Merci.” Logan began to move away. “Don’ be shy.”

“Eh?”

“Room fer two,” Remy pointed out. He moved over a bit, leaving a place for Logan to sit. Logan crouched and relaxed against the edge of the cold rock.

Remy’s proximity was uncommon over the past few days. Logan was more aware not of it than he’d like, his body heat and the scents of his hair and sweat. Beside him, Remy was pensive and equally tense.

“Logan?”

“Eh?”

“Jus’ wanted t’speak wit’ you. Had a few t’ings on m’mind.”

“All right.”

“I’m sorry.” They peered askance at each other by turns. Logan swallowed, surprised to find a lump in his throat.

“Why?”

“T’ink I forgot dat one of my duties in m’own kingdom is t’foster good relations wit’ my realm’s neighbors, but jus’ as important is t’be a gracious guest.” He handed Logan back the canteen. “Ya extended yer hospitality t’include my son.”

“It was the last I could do.”

“Non. It means the world t’me.”

Logan picked up a stick and peeled off bits of its bark. “It’s my pleasure.” His voice was earnest, and Remy was humbled.

“Ya don’ hafta say dat t’make-“

“I mean it.” Logan heard his stallion nicker at Victor as he curried his dark coat while they rested. “I’d do anything in my power to help you.”

Warmth spread through Remy’s chest. Logan was hunched with his elbows against his knees while he stripped the twig. The posture made him look so…unregal to Remy, even vulnerable.

His broad, hard back felt reassuringly solid beneath Remy’s palm. Victor watched them unnoticed, but his eyes were bright with curiosity.

Etienne ceased his shrieking, stomping chase of a flock of sparrows just in time to see his father giving Logan a soft smile, squeezing his shoulder companionably.

Jealousy reared its ugly green head.

“Papa, LOOK!” Etienne clambered up the saddle of Remy’s mare with some difficulty, before Victor or either prince could reach him.

“Etienne, no!” Remy roared. Panic gripped him at the sight of his son grasping the pommel with too little skill and too much confidence.

“Shit!” Victor hissed, dropping the brush in the scattered leaves as he hurried forward.

Etienne scrambled onto the mare’s back, but he didn’t have a strong purchase before he took the reins. The mare shied and whinnied, tossing her head in warning. Its tether around the branch strained, then snapped.

Etienne’s eyes went round with fear and the realization that he’s misjudged the mare’s temperament and his own horsemanship.

The horse sensed her rider’s uncertainty and reared up.

“NO!” Remy cried, stumbling to his feet. His hand was outstretched and his face went white as a sheet.

Logan was faster.

He charged toward the mare, instantly closing the gap between them, just as the mare sputtered and wailed her defiance, stomping and bucking in an attempt to rid herself of the child in her saddle.

“HOLD ON!” Logan ordered, hoping hell for leather that he could reach him, perhaps capture the mare’s reins, but it wasn’t to be. Her mouth was frothing around the bit and her dark eyes were wild, showing Logan the whites. He knew from his bond with wild creatures that she was just as frightened as Etienne. 

He skirted around her and stretched out his arms, and Logan’s breath whooshed out of his chest as he caught Etienne before she could dash him to the ground. Logan staggered back beneath the impact, but he held fast to him, relieved to hear the boy’s sobs.

“Don’t let …hurt me,” he hiccupped. “Papa…” Logan turned to Remy and hastily handed Etienne off to him. Remy was trembling, and he swept his son into his arms with a grateful, choked cry.

But the mare hadn’t calmed yet. 

“Easy,” Logan urged. Victor wasn’t as gentlemanly.

“Calm down, bitch!” he yelled, impatient and anxious to end her tantrum before she could stir up Logan’s mount, too. The dark stallion was already dancing and shying, straining at its tether.

Logan was short enough that he was no easy match for a horse that stood so many hands, particularly reared up on her hind legs. But he grasped her reins and jerked, dragging her down. She snorted and reared again, defiant and angry at his gall. Logan would have none of it.

“Mind me!” he demanded. Victor’s face was twisted in anger that his sovereign was placing himself in harm’s way.

Logan caught a glimpse of Remy holding a sobbing Etienne against his chest as he backed them away from the angry mare. That was all he needed to see.

There was no more time to think, only act. He caught the reins one more time.

She conveyed her feelings about this by bearing down on him and cuffing him neatly in the forehead with her front hoof.


	9. Whenever You Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting hit in the head gives a man time to think. Or in this case, two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Thanks for the reviews, I appreciate them. I know this was supposed to be a fairy tale, but you know I have to have my angst served in a bigger, more heaping dose than the giggles and cuddles by now. Not too much longer, now, but I can promise these two men are seeing each other in a new light.

The earth was shifting beneath him.

It hovered in Logan’s consciousness that he was being moved. No. Carried.

He floated in a vague awareness between waking and oblivion, heard the buzz of voices hovering around him. He could barely make out words.

He felt himself stop moving. His body was shifted, perhaps passed to someone, something that would normally make him scoff. No one in his kingdom could possibly lift his dead weight.

He was moving again. Up. Up. The pace was slower, and he felt the whisper of something warm and light against his face. Someone’s harsh breathing. That was all it could be, he decided. It was so strange and disconcerting, this odd movement and shifting, uneven but yet steady.

Soft.

He was laid down upon something soft that gave beneath his weight. Several voices were still buzzing around him, not as loud this time, but he was frustrated that he still couldn’t make out the words.

He knew he was being touched, perhaps probed and turned. Pain wasn’t welcome in this place yet, this limbo combining darkness and tranquility. But Logan was cold. Why was he so cold?

The coldness faded away. Someone warmed him. He didn’t know how. He only knew that it felt very nice. Sweet.

Someone was whispering his name in his ear. It felt like a caress.

*

Etienne sat miserably in his guest quarters while Nanny brushed the snarls out of his chestnut hair. He picked at a sore spot on his palm where the horse’s rein almost rubbed off the skin.

“Stop that,” she chided him.

“Okay,” he whined, but the urge to argue with her left him. That was unlike him, and she knew that something was definitely wrong.

Worry clogged his gut in an almost bilious fashion. 

All he could hear were the horse’s screams mingling with his own. All he saw was his father looking terrified and reaching for him. 

Then there was the blood. 

Remy’s mare’s broad chest was flecked with crimson stains as she pranced and sputtered, still perilously close to Logan’s unmoving body.

The burly, hairy prince with the gruff voice who was always trying to tell him what to do, and who had kept his father from him was lying on the ground, bleeding.

And it was all Etienne’s fault.

Nanny felt uncomfortable with the child’s uncharacteristic silence. But he ignored her questions until it was time for supper.

*

Logan’s room was a flurry of activity, and he was out cold throughout every minute of it.

Jean-Paul and Pietro moved like lightning in and out of the room, bringing blankets, rags, water pitchers, basins and dragging Leonard inside by the elbow.

The doctor didn’t need to be told twice what to do, once he got a quick glance at Logan’s pallor and the wound, suffered so soon after his injury from the rock. Leonard lit several candles to give himself more light by the bedside table and Jean-Paul pulled up a stool for him. Jean-Paul stripped off Logan’s ruined shirt and tossed it to Jubilee, who looked close to weeping. She busied herself with taking it to the castle’s head laundress and giving Clementine the order for supper to be made early for anyone who wanted it already. The cook was already flying around the kitchen, stirring pots of soup and drawing bread from the oven, ladling a tureen to be sent upstairs.

“James! Where’s my son?” Queen Eliza cried, hurrying down the hall. Her skin was florid and her blue eyes were frantic. “What happened to my son!”

She caught sight of Remy, who was standing in the hallway, watching the activity in the room as though he were in a trance, not truly part of it. But as she approached him, she saw that he was actually in shock.

“Remy,” she pleaded, “what happened to my James? Pray, tell me, quickly!”

“He…my son…he caught him,” he began, and his voice was slightly hoarse.

“What? What do you mean, he caught him? Etienne?”

“Oui. Reached up and caught him. ‘Bout t’be flipped off that evil mare of his,” Remy explained, and he was having difficulty forming the words. He took Eliza’s hands in his and squeezed them. “He was helpin’ Etienne when he was showin’ off. He might’ve saved his life.”

“Dear God,” she breathed. She turned and stared in through the doorway and found Leonard leaning over Logan’s supine form. Blood streaked in long, ugly tendrils down his face like a gruesome mask.

“JAMES!” Her knees buckled. Remy caught hold of her and supported her, but she’d already swooned.

*

The next hour was frustrating and grim. Leonard cleaned the wound and performed a minor, surgical retrieval of slivers of bone that worked their way free into his skin. Logan never made a sound, which frightened even Victor, who paced the hall until Logan’s father bade him to stop.

An ugly bruise was blossoming over Logan’s flesh. Leonard was sweating; Jean-Paul periodically wiped his brow and helped him, sterilizing his needles under an open flame as necessary. Leonard executed two neat rows of stitches this time and wrapped the wound in several layers of gauze.

“Keep it clean. Keep him dosed for pain.”

“W-with what, have you any medicine for him?”

“Whisky,” Leonard snapped. “Whenever he asks for it. Don’t move him. Don’t upset him or make him fret over any petty details. No one,” he ordered, “understand?” He left behind a potion to help prevent infection and a topical analgesic and took his leave.

Jean-Paul and Pietro cleaned his chamber while he slept. Pietro’s eyes looked hollow in his face. Remy sat quietly in the corner of the room, also exhausted.

“Pardonne,” he asked quietly. Jean-Paul froze in the act of rolling the soiled bedclothes out from under Logan.

“Yes, sire?”

“Could ya…go t’Prince James’ chamber, and bring his belongings back here. Please. All of dem.”

“Oh…well, all right, sire,” Pietro replied, surprised. “Would you like to exchange chambers with him? We can have it aired, if you w-“

“Non. Dat won’t be necessary. Dis room’s perfectly fine. Plenty big enough fo’ two.” Jean-Paul looked flummoxed; Logan had claimed the exact opposite when he evicted himself from his own quarters just weeks before. But they carried out his request once they were finished freshening the bed and bathing Logan’s face, neck and chest. They didn’t take one liberty, but Remy saw that their faces reflected the same anguish that he felt.

“I’d jus’ like t’say, you do your ruling family a great service. You’ve taken good care of ‘im,” Remy said earnestly. Jean-Paul nodded, moved.

“Thank you, sire.” They handled Logan as though he was made of fine china.

“Rest,” he ordered.

“Sire?”

“Go. I’ll be here.”

“But, Highness!”

“I’ll let y’know if I need you.”

“We shouldn’t be far away, however, Highness, what if something goes wrong? What if he needs the physician again, or if his wound opens, or-“

“Calm down,” Remy said curtly. Pietro clapped his mouth shut and bowed his head.

“I’ll be here. I won’t leave.” He left it at that. Pietro and Jean-Paul backed out of the chamber and excused themselves, then set about retrieving Logan’s things from the other chamber. They spent the rest of the waking hours serving food in the main hall and bringing up trays of food for both princes. They fretted about them both.

*

Pain. It throbbed a tattoo so sharp that Logan wanted to peel off his own skin.

“EEERRRGGGHHH!” Remy jerked awake in his seat, disoriented and with a horrible crick in his neck. 

He found Logan writhing and thrashing in bed, fists pounding the bed and twisting the covers. His back arched in agony and his face was wracked in agony.

“Chere,” Remy murmured, coming quickly out of his fog of exhaustion. He hurried to the vanity and found the bottle of whisky. He splashed three fingers of it into a goblet and quickly returned to his side.

Logan was gasping and taking shallow sips of breath as he tried not to cry out.

“It’s all right, chere, s’okay, c’mon now,” Remy soothed, making low shushing sounds. His whisper was hoarse and sibilant, his voice unfamiliar to Logan in that instant.

“Hurts…” He trembled and shivered, teeth chattering. Remy adjusted his blankets and took his hand.

“It’s all right. Gonna help you. Ya need dis.” Remy didn’t stop Logan when he tried to sit up, but he was so weak that he faltered, collapsing most of the way back into the pillow. Remy eased his arm beneath his upper back, cradling him in the crook of it. He lifted the goblet to his lips.

“Drink, chere.” He heard Logan work it down, and a few drops dribbled down his neck. His swallows were raspy as they echoed in the cup the more deeply he drank. Logan groaned, and his breathing was still ragged.

“More,” he grunted.

“Gimme a minute, chere!”

“MORE!” Logan barked. Nonplussed, Remy brought over the entire bottle. He propped him up again and let him drink, careful not to let him choke. Logan drained half of it before he would let Remy take the bottle away.

He laid back. “Too bright,” he croaked. Remy extinguished all but one of the candles Leonard had lit for himself. He carried it back to the vanity and moved around the room. Logan heard shallow splashes in the corner and closed his eyes so the room wouldn’t spin.

A cool cloth was laid over his head. Logan whimpered, but the coolness was soothing after a few moments, helping to numb the wound slightly as the whisky’s analgesic affect began to work. 

Jean-Paul and Pietro hurried into the room, frantic and in dishabille. Both of them were dressed for bed in loose pants and no shirts, feet hastily crammed into slippers.

“He cried out!” Jean-Paul insisted.

“Oui. He did. He’s settlin’ down now,” Remy informed him. Sure enough, Logan’s breathing was evening out, and he laid back, settling back into the pillows.

“Make sure to change his dressing every time it gets wet,” Pietro reminded him. “The bandages are right there.”

“Oui.”

“Good night, sire.”

“Bon nuit.” Remy gave them a sleepy salute. They looked on him with pity but they were pleased and reassured at how calm he was.

Logan floated in and out of the next eighteen hours. Voices had more shape and form now, and he was sometimes roused against his will from sleep to be poked and prodded, or for his dressing to be changed.

Smooth, gentle hands held his, and sometimes one rested over his heart. A smooth, rich voice lulled him sometimes, murmuring to him that he would be all right. That he wasn’t alone, that the owner of that voice would be there when he woke. 

And Remy always was.

*

Logan awoke with a horrible headache and a pasty-tasting bitterness in his mouth. Whisky, if he had to guess.

His room was dark. Someone had the wisdom to draw the curtains in his room and extinguish the candles, but there was still a low flame crackling in the fireplace.

Logan heard that he wasn’t alone before he opened his eyes fully. 

Two sets of low snores reached him, both relatively close.

“Nnnnngh,” he moaned raggedly. He tried to sit up and ended up aborting the attempt. He was still dizzy and felt like a gaggle of elves were using his brain as a forge, hammering away at him until his skull would split open. The pain and lingering drunkenness from the whisky made his stomach pitch.

At least his delirium was gone, and Logan was grateful. He laid still a few moments more, then attempted to sit up again.

Logan found a box of long matches by feel, then reached for one of the silver candlesticks that gleamed in the dim light. He lit a half-melted taper and set it on the vanity. His eyes tried to accustom themselves to the light, but his vision was still blurry.

Then he nearly stumbled over something. When he looked down, he thought he was seeing an illusion.

Remy and Etienne were curled up on a spare cot that someone laid close to his bed. Etienne laid in the crook of his father’s arm and moaned in his sleep, smacking his lips.

Why on earth were they there?

“Damn,” Logan whispered.

He tried to place the events that brought them there.

He remembered the boy screaming, eyes pleading with Logan to help him. He had to run, to reach him before he could get hurt…

And he reached him. Logan remembered the feel of his slight body thudding against his chest, holding onto him tightly as they avoided the horse’s hooves.

Before Logan could stop himself, he reached out and gingerly stroked the child’s soft hair to reassure himself that he was fine and in one piece.

Etienne’s eyes snapped open. When he found himself in the dark, he began to whimper.

“Shhhh,” Logan urged, holding a finger to his lips. “Hush.” 

Remy looked knackered, and Logan noticed that even in sleep, he had dark circles beneath his beautiful eyes, and his face was unshaven and drawn. His normally immaculate clothing was very rumpled and askew.

Logan held out his hand to Etienne. He gripped it and allowed Logan to pull him from the cot as gently and soundlessly as he could. Remy only stirred briefly and his arms jerked around the suddenly empty space, but he settled back down to sleep. Logan moved slowly and painfully toward the door with Etienne in tow.

Once they were out in the hall, Logan shut the door. He knelt in front of Etienne and took the boy’s hand. Etienne used his free one to rub sleep from his eyes.

His expression was troubled.

“Was I asleep a long time?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How long?”

“Almost two days.” Logan’s mind reeled.

He’d almost died. He squeezed his little hand in an effort to comfort the boy, since he looked as though he’d realized that as well, while Logan slept and healed. Logan didn’t want to imagine how terrifying it must have been to watch someone get injured so seriously, whether he didn’t like Logan or not.

“Papa’s s’posed to take care of you,” Etienne informed him soberly.

“Who says?”

“Papa.”

“Shoe’s on the other foot,” Logan muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing. My head still hurts, friend. I’m not making much sense.”

“I’m not your friend,” Etienne argued. His voice was so earnest that Logan couldn’t be angry with him. He managed a weak smile.

“I guess not.”

Etienne watched him, then reached for him. Logan held still as small, warm fingers lightly touched his cheek.

“You were bleeding. A lot.”

“Was I, now?”

“Uh-huh. It was awful.”

“Don’t like blood?”

“I’m not afraid of blood,” Etienne claimed, but he looked sick at the memory, telling Logan it was a lie.

“Big, grown up man,” Logan assured him, patting his arm. The way his red-on-black eyes stared into his was both unnerving and familiar.

“Papa said that man had to sew you together.”

“That’s his job.”

“That’s what I want to be. A doctor,” Etienne told him.

“Ya can be whatever ya want t’be. Bet ya’d be good at it.”

“I’m supposed to be a prince.”

“Then you’ll be a busy man.” Logan sighed. “Let’s let your papa sleep. He looks very tired, and he might like some quiet.”

“Who’s going to take care of him?”

“He’s feeling better and starting to take care of himself.” But Logan was asking himself that question even as he led Etienne back to his own quarters. When they reached it, Nanny was snoring loudly, head barely visible beneath the covers. Etienne made a face.

“I don’t want to be here with her. I want Papa.”

“I know.”

“He’ll be afraid if I’m not there!”

“Is that’s what’s wrong?” Logan led the boy to a chair by the vanity and sat, glad to be off his feet. He drew Etienne close and held onto his hands. “You don’t want Papa to be afraid?”

Etienne’s chin quivered. “He’s gonna get scared without me, and I have to take care of him! He misses Maman, and if I’m not with him, either, he’ll cry!” His eyes glimmered and Logan tensed at the beginnings of a sniffle.

In his current state, he was in no position to offer much reassurance to a child. But Logan found that there was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to do just that.

“He didn’t cry, Etienne,” Logan explained carefully, “but he did miss ya very much. He talked about ya whenever he woke up while he was sick. He was worried you would be afraid, too. And he didn’t want ya ta feel lonely without him. Did ya get my letter? Did Nanny read it to you?” Etienne drew himself up as tall as he could.

“I read some,” he boasted, but there was still a tremor in his voice.

“Etienne…I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because friends say they’re sorry. I’m sorry I kept yer papa here so long. I didn’t mean to worry you.” Logan’s head throbbed and he was having a difficult time remaining upright in the uncomfortable chair, but he needed to have his say, to make Remy’s son understand.

“He was supposed to come home,” Etienne told him indignantly, and his pout reappeared. Logan wavered beneath it. Yes, that expression was the strongest weapon in the boy’s arsenal, and Logan felt like a heel.

“Yes, he was. All he wanted was to get well as fast as he could so he could leave, and return to you.” The first part of Logan’s claim still rankled with him, but he couldn’t say as much.

Etienne finally looked away first, breaking his unmoving stare, and he stared down at his booted feet.

“It’s all my fault,” he whispered miserably.

“What?”

“That you got hurt. Both times.”

“Ya have a strong throwin’ arm.”

“I wasn’t strong enough to hold the horse,” he argued. “It’s my fault,” he repeated.

“So ya wanna take the blame, huh? That make ya feel better?”

“No.” Now the tears escaped and raced down his cheeks.

“It doesn’t make me feel better, either. Know what’d make me feel better?”

“No,” he said, and his voice was still trembling and watery.

“If ya’d let me be yer friend. I’ll never make ya be without yer papa again. I swear that on my grave-“

He was cut off as Etienne flung himself at him, slim arms wrapping around Logan’s neck. His sobs broke Logan’s heart, and opened it wide to admit one more person. The individual in question was getting his neck and shirt wet. Logan’s head throbbed even more in protest at the sharp embrace and the way Etienne clung to him, but he sighed in relief.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. Logan stroked his hair and back soothingly.

“I know.” He repeated the words that he’d said time and time again at Remy’s bedside. “It’s all right. I’m here. I won’t leave.”

Friends say they’re sorry.


	10. Hazel Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I’m having a hard time putting this down, even though I have a whole mess of other stories that need updating for all my pairings, it’s just sad. But this one might be the easiest to eventually finish, and I’m having fun with it. My muses want these two together. Badly.

Logan was a stubborn bastard.

The realization nagged Remy and he practically chanted it to himself as he stomped through the castle.

“Victor,” he barked.

“Aye, Highness?”

“Where is he?”

“Out an’ about.”

“Ya could be more specific.” His red irises practically burned Victor. The tall blond’s eyebrows drew together.

“In the brush. Not far from here.” Remy gritted his teeth.

“Did it ever occur t’you dat his Highness might not be ready for a jaunt out into the brush?”

“Nay, sire.”

“You’re his bodyguard.”

“I ain’t his nanny, and he ain’t wearin’ nappies, sire.”

“He’s injured!” Remy hissed. His fists balled themselves at his sides. Victor was nonplussed, even though Remy could easily recommend his punishment for insolence to one of the crowned heads of the realm.

“He walked out of here with no difficulty at all. And, Highness?”

“What!”

“I don’t know how ya suggest I might’ve stopped him. He’s a prince. And he’s ornery. If ya feel ya’d have more success tellin’ him what he can’t do, then be my guest and give me some lessons.” Victor shrugged. Remy fumed.

*

Remy spent another sleepless night fretting over Logan when he returned to his chamber. By the time Remy heard the mattress creak beside him, daylight was sneaking in through the crack in the curtains.

His eyes snapped open, and Remy bolted up from the cot. He saw Logan’s form sprawled on the bed, and his eyes were squeezed shut in pain.

“Damn it,” Remy spat. He fumbled in the still dark chamber and found the book of matches. He lit a fat red wax pillar and examined Logan’s face in the dim light.

He was breathing a bit raggedly from the effort it took to return to his bed. Frustration swamped Remy, coupled with his exhaustion. But his gut twisted in panic when he saw Logan’s poor state.

“Where de hell were you?” he accused.

“Down the hall,” Logan croaked.

“Why?”

“Wanted t’let ya sleep.”

“Deserting me when yer s’posed ta stay in bed is yer idea of lettin’ me sleep?” Remy’s jaw worked.

He fought back a frisson of anger and confusion. Didn’t Logan have any semblance of how worried he’d been? Remy tugged his hair to busy his hands so he wouldn’t wring Logan’s neck.

“Ya didn’t have ta stay. Jean-Paul and Pietro could have checked in on me,” Logan said simply, but secretly he was glad that Remy stayed in his room. His memory was patchy, but Logan wondered if the voice and the hands that soothed him had been his. 

Remy was making that harder to discern now, however, since he looked livid.

“Ya couldn’t have had any good reason t’leave dis room in yer condition, chere.”

“No? I think my reason’s more than acceptable.”

“Enlighten me, den.”

“Etienne and I had a little chat.”

Logan suddenly felt sorry for Remy and regretted his approach to pointing out that his son was gone. Remy paled and his eyes filled with terror. He spun around and searched the room, and Logan could see shame flooding his face that he hadn’t inquired about his son’s absence from the chamber sooner.

“Holy…!”

“Remy,” Logan urged.

“He’s not…where is he? Where’s my boy?”

“In his room,” Logan explained. Remy’s body was taut and he drew in harsh breaths that made his chest heave dangerously while he tried to master his shock. He closed his eyes and a small sound of relief escaped him.

Logan watched Remy collapse back onto the cot, completely overwhelmed.

“I took him back because he woke up, afraid. I didn’t want ta wake you.”

“But you should have!” Remy snapped, looking up from where he’d been leaning his face in his hands. “Ya always wake me when it concerns my son!”

“I spoke with him.” Logan turned slightly in the bed to better face Remy, even though the shift in position was painful. “I decided it was time, and I think Etienne felt that way, too.”

“What did he say?”

“That he was sorry.”

Some of the tension twisting Remy’s gut left him.

“And that was after we discussed his feelings about me keepin’ ya here,” Logan added thoughtfully. “I wronged him. I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’ understand.”

“I was so concerned about trying ta make ya well. I didn’t realize that I wasn’t the only one worried about you.” Logan’s hazel eyes were ringed with dark circles, made more imposing by the bandaged wound above them. “And that was very, very selfish of me.”

It gradually sank in what Logan was trying to tell him.

“Why?”

“Because…I didn’t want ta watch ya leave.”

The words were out in the open, and Logan felt raw and exposed. Remy’s eyes held so much confusion in their depths, and Logan turned away from him then, again ignoring the pain. He couldn’t bear it if he stared any longer and found scorn.

With his back turned and his body curled on its side, Logan looked like a punished little boy. Remy swallowed as a rash of prickles swarmed over him.

He’d caused that uncertainty in Logan, and Remy realized how badly he’d wronged him, then, during their initial introduction.

Logan wasn’t one of a tide of status-seeking women who lusted after Remy’s beauty and power. But Remy treated him like one, and discarded him just as easily. He was so ashamed.

Logan felt the slight chill of his chamber replaced by warmth as the covers were drawn gently over him and tucked in against his back.

“I know what it’s like to watch someone leave, chere. Dere ain’t a day or night when I don’t t’ink about Bella. Etienne’s maman. My wife.”

Logan shivered slightly at the feel of Remy’s hand settling over his shoulder. He stroked the length of his upper arm just to acquaint himself with the solid feel of Logan’s warm skin, and to his satisfaction, he felt him relax beneath his touch.

“She was beautiful and smart.”

“I know,” Logan murmured. “I see that in yer son.”

“Ev’ry time I met a new woman wantin’ ta marry me, I looked for Bella in each and ev’ry one of ‘em. I never found her dere.”

“You never will,” Logan mused drowsily. Remy’s caresses were putting him to sleep. “She was special.”

“Oui.” Remy’s eyes stung with the memory.

“She’d want ya ta find someone t’love again,” Logan murmured. He smothered a yawn. “Even…if it ain’t…a squat…scruffy runt.” His voice drifted off.

Remy was grateful Logan couldn’t see his shocked expression. He was sound asleep.

*

That was two days ago.

Two insufficient days of too little bed rest. Two days of waking up to find the space next to him empty both mornings because Logan was such a blasted early riser. There would be no trace of him except for discarded bandages and a slightly emptied potion bottle as Logan used up the painkiller.

The housekeeping staff wisely kept mum when Remy ordered them to remove the cot in his room.

Each night, he listened to Logan’s grumbling complaints that he wasn’t a baby. Each night, Remy helped change his dressings and checked his stitches for signs of infection. And each night, he waited for Logan to fall asleep, staring at the mesmerizing, crackling flames in the grate until his hazel eyes were so heavy lidded they dropped.

And each night, he crawled onto the bed and laid atop the covers, falling asleep next to Logan’s slumbering bulk. Etienne visited Logan during the day as Nanny allowed, and his son was satisfied that his new friend was recuperating. He didn’t cry out in the dark anymore, and Remy didn’t feel as compelled to camp out in his son’s room to keep the monsters at bay. He’d appeared to have banished them himself.

*

Logan recalled the first morning that he awoke with an unaccustomed, solid warmth at his back.

Remy.

One long, lean arm roped with muscle was draped over Logan’s waist from behind, and Remy’s body was wrapped around Logan’s, curled like a letter ‘C’. Remy’s breath misted his nape, and Logan’s body reacted violently to the tantalizing sensation.

Remy was a heavy sleeper. Each morning, Logan gently crept out of bed and carefully tucked Remy back beneath the covers before he left the chamber. Part of him longed to remain there…

But Logan refused to give in to a selfish whim, even though Remy’s sleeping scent and heat were intoxicating.

He needed air. Logan chose to go out.

He hastily donned old riding leathers and a careworn shirt that would have made Jean-Paul and Pietro weep and he swept out of the castle.

He communed with the creatures in the brush, but they had no answers for him.

Logan only knew one thing with certainty: He had to watch Remy walk away now that he was well and reunited with his son, and it hurt like hell.

*

“Papa, where are you going?”

“Outside, petit.”

“Can I come?”

“Papa needs t’find de prince, chere.”

“He’s my friend, I want to look for him, too!” Etienne cried petulantly.

Remy was reluctant to allow it. He planned on giving Logan a blistering that wasn’t mean for young, impressionable ears.

“Please, Papa?”

The pout. Damn it.

“Have Nanny change those shoes. Put on boots.” Etienne scampered back to his suite with delight.

Remy rode with Etienne in front of him again, this time on a docile roan. He took the same path from his ill-fated ride and followed the same twists and turns, passing familiar trees and rocks.

“Kits, Papa.”

“Hm?”

“Foxes,” Etienne said, pointing. Remy saw them dart out and chase some small rodents into a hole.

The forest had a charged feeling that made Remy’s hair stand on end. He couldn’t explain it. Scents and sounds were sharper, and he felt an odd tingle of anticipation.

He heard Logan before he saw him once they reached the clearing.

The ground around Logan was drenched in barely filtered sunlight as it crept between the tree branches and dappled the grass.

Remy couldn’t believe what he saw.

Creatures. Many of them were surrounding him, even flocking to him as he stood, murmuring to a finch that was perched on his finger. Hares scuffled over the dry leaves and rubbed their long-eared heads against his boots. Nearby, a stray hound yawned, showing rows of jagged teeth. His tail thumped the ground in greeting as Logan knelt down to scratch it between its ears. The animal looked like a stray.

More disconcerting was that animals who were natural enemies commingled around him without conflict. Predators didn’t bear down on prey.

“Papa, look,” Etienne whispered. “How is he doing that?”

“I don’t know, petit.” Remy didn’t recognize his own voice.

Logan had removed his bandages to give his wound some fresh air, hating the way the strips chafed. The stitches were still angry and puckered, but his skin was less bruised and his eyes were more alert.

He turned and saw that he wasn’t alone.

“Mornin’, Highness.” Etienne giggled.

“Why is he calling you that, Papa?”

“Because he’s a prince,” Logan answered for him, approaching with the finch now perched on his shoulder. Remy felt a hint of irritation at the nickname.

Logan had called his name in his sleep while the pain had gripped him. Anything else seemed wrong to his ears.

“A certain sire should be back in bed.”

“It’s too beautiful of a day. Etienne agrees with me. Dontcha?”

“Uh-huh,” he said solemnly, but mischief danced in the boy’s eyes when Logan reached up for him and carefully lifted him down from the horse.

“Etienne, non! We ain’t gonna stay, get back on! And you,” Remy warned, “need t’get back on yer own horse and head back wit’ us. We came t’find you.”

“Ya found me. Rest a bit.” He reached into his pocket and handed a cloth-wrapped item to Etienne. “Here. Give some to those birds. They don’t like t’be chased. They’ll come to you.” Etienne unwrapped a hunk of slightly stale bread and automatically began breaking off crumbs. He scattered them for a flock of sparrows that landed in the nearby bushes, chattering and raising a racket. A few hopped forward when he knelt and held out a bit of bread in his palm. Etienne’s face was rapt with delight.

Remy fumed. He glared at Logan. Logan shrugged.

“Ya can sit up there all day, or come down with me and my friend here and make a few introductions.”

Remy climbed down from his mount and joined Logan’s side. The urge to smack him was strong, but no more than the way his hands wanted to reach for him again, to touch that scar and trace its rough texture, or to tug those errant locks of hair back behind his ears where they belonged. Even his hair wasn’t obedient or reasonable.

“Yer a hardheaded, stubborn bastard.”

“Been savin’ that up since ya woke up?”

“You shoulda still been in bed when dat t’ought was occurrin’ t’me.”

“So I was supposed ta be a sleepin’ stubborn bastard.”

“Would’ve had a different impression of ya if ya had. Maybe a more flatterin’ one.”

Logan scratched his ear and avoided Remy’s eyes. His tone was casual. “Maybe I’m hearin’ things, but why do I get the impression ya seem worried about me?”

Remy made a sound of disgust. It goes without saying. His hands were itching to smack him.

“What’s more,” Logan mused, “ya seem ta care a lot about my well-bein’ now that yer about ta leave the palace.”

“Eh?”

“Yer arm.” Logan nodded to the one in question. It was true. Remy’s splint was off. Aside from the occasional twinge, he had full use of it again.

Remy watched Logan move about the clearing, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. The outdoors seemed to replenish and strengthen him, and Remy realized he was more at home in the woods than he was within four walls.

Remy gave in, resigned. He didn’t even raise objections when Etienne sat perched atop Logan’s shoulders, making him tall enough to pick some apples. The three princes enjoyed their afternoon, joking and watching the creatures around them in their own habitat.

Remy sat absently, flexing and releasing his fingers. He was fully recovered. Of course, it was time to leave. He’d overstayed his welcome long enough, surely.

A few feet away, Logan was paring apple slices and removing the seeds with his knife. Etienne munched some and listened to Logan’s explanation that the green berries they saw a few feet away weren’t all right to eat. His son leaned in companionably toward him and peppered him with questions.

A couple of hours later, they returned home. Logan was reluctant to go back; Remy was slightly relieved. More frustrating than having his original intent to force Logan back to bed thwarted was watching his son spend so much time with him. 

Remy was jealous. More appalling? That he didn’t know which one of them he was more jealous of. Logan appeared to be enjoying himself as Etienne drew him pictures in the dirt with a stick, obviously showing him something he learned during his lessons.

Yes. Leaving Towering Trees would be harder than he thought.

*

So Remy made excuses. He remained another week, using the excuse that he wanted to make sure Logan was one hundred percent. But his demeanor was scoffing and flip.

“Can’t rely on ya ta take care of yerself, homme.”

“That’s what Jean-Paul and Pietro are for. According ta them, I can’t even dress myself without supervision.”

“Handy excuse,” Remy muttered. He was more than aware of what “supervision” from Logan’s valets entailed. And in his current state, frustrated and needing more answers, it was growing harder even to ignore the grooms’ attentions. Remy almost welcomed their overtures. It had been so long since he’d taken a partner to bed.

But he felt an odd frisson of jealousy, suddenly, as he pictured Logan in the tub in his stead. It was his broad, hairy chest they swabbed with damp rags and lathered generously with soap. They massaged their hands through unruly, thick black waves instead of chestnut ripples in Remy’s mind’s eye, and their charge leaned his head back against Jean-Paul’s chest while Pietro tugged on and kneaded the long toes of his wide feet, blowing cool air between them.

Remy felt an unwelcome pull in his cock and his face grew hot. The fantasy, once given its head, wouldn’t leave him alone.

Would Logan moan with need as Jean-Paul kneaded the generous, hard crowns of his shoulders and the taut cords of muscle in his neck? Would he shiver at the feel of his valet’s breath whispering over the shell of his ear as he asked him if the water was still warm enough, sire? Would he allow Pietro to progress to kneading his ankles and tight calves to work out a knot, enjoying the decadent feel of his damp, slick hair plastered to his skin from the bath? Would his valet’s fingertips tickle the vulnerable, tender flesh of the back of his knee, painstakingly creeping to his inner thigh to stroke the satiny smoothness? Would Jean-Paul tell him huskily that his back wasn’t clean yet, would he like him to scrub it for him, just for the excuse to see him lean forward, water receding tantalizingly from his waistline and making the seam of his crease barely visible from beneath the cooling water?

Would he tell him that he’d missed a spot?

Would Logan agree with him that he had?

Would Jean-Paul drown in the intensity of those hazel eyes, their warm amber flecked with green and gold? Would he forget himself one final, crucial time?

Remy clenched his fists, and he couldn’t focus on opening the scroll in his hands.

No.

Yes…

Logan had called Remy his last resort. Surely he couldn’t feel that way. He couldn’t.

Yes. He could. Remy’s breathing quickened. 

Why the hell was he so tense all of the sudden?

Would four hands abandon pretense at bathing the prince, and take more than the usual liberties, lingering on the contoured planes of his hard chest, tracing the curve of his navel, running fingertips over the crease of his elbow or the sensitive skin of his inner wrist? Would two sets of light blue eyes gaze lustfully and adoringly at their sovereign and would both voices promise that none of his needs would be overlooked, no matter how detailed?

Remy laid the scroll on the bed and his hands shook as he fumbled with the buttons and ties on his trousers. His manhood throbbed for release, and he had to give it attention, at the expense of walking around with an unsatisfied erection and a headache for the rest of the evening.

Etienne was ensconced in his room, taking a nap. Logan was elsewhere in the castle, for some reason avoiding him, which bothered Remy even more.

But in the meantime, he had privacy. The column of flesh felt hot and stiff, and his flesh quivered as he grasped it in his fist.

The images of Logan lolling in the tub, being bathed, then pleasured by his grooms was sweet torture. Remy stroked and tugged, building up a rhythm, and he groaned with need. 

Jean-Paul’s hand flattened against Logan’s chest, toying with the whorls of damp, matted hair until he discovered the stiff pearl of Logan’s nipple and began to tease it. Pietro had abandoned his feet and was tracing the ripples of Logan’s abdominal muscles with his fingertips. Logan’s hips jerked at the hot, slick feel of Pietro’s mouth covering his other nipple, laving it in lazy circles with the very tip of his tongue.

A bead of slick precum oozed from the pucker at the tip of his cock. Remy dragged his thumb through it and rubbed it along his length, changing the friction. He closed his eyes and let the images in his mind feed the grip of his hand. Tension and pressure built up in his flesh, swelling and jerking. His abdomen flexed with each pull and the delicious sensations it caused, and Remy was close, so close…

It wasn’t until Remy placed himself in the tub with Logan, his own lips sliding over Logan’s neck and whispering lusty secrets that he gave himself over to it in full. He felt a tingling in his lower spine that pulsed in his gut, and then his climax gripped him hard. His sharp exhalation of breath was louder than he wanted it, but he ringed himself in his hand and jerked himself those last few, quick times to prolong the delicious shocks as long as he could. He panted in the silence of the empty chamber, eyes still closed, and his senses took in the feel of damp stickiness on his belly. A dab of seed stained his tunic. Remy hastily shucked it and searched for another one in the trunk.

Remy miserably wondered to himself how Logan’s lips felt. It frustrated him that now, might never find out.

That shouldn’t bother him…should it?


	11. Don't Call Me Highness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy gets some important correspondence from his parents, and everything changes.

Logan sometimes moved more quietly than anyone gave him credit for, since he was so sturdily built. He crept past his own bedchamber to his abandoned guest suite, but not before peering briefly inside his door.

Remy’s back was to him as he sat back in a richly upholstered chair. He was reading what looked like a scroll by firelight. Logan couldn’t see his expression from his vantage point, but the set of his shoulders looked tense. The scroll bore the red wax seal of Shade and Sweet Water. Logan easily guessed what it was.

Logan wasn’t ready to face whatever announcement Remy had in that regard yet.

In the meantime, he was rank. Logan danced at the inn until half the maidens begged exhaustion, but they were thrilled to have him back. He drank Bobby under the table and won several games of cards with Hank and Warren. But it did nothing to heal the empty feeling inside him, and Logan didn’t have any answers as to what would. Or at any rate, any feasible alternatives to the one solution that he could name.

Logan retreated to the guest chamber. As though they had read his thoughts, Jean-Paul and Pietro appeared, watching him in confusion.

“Sire? Are you needing anything?”

“Bath,” Logan grumbled.

That was all they needed to hear. They hurried away, almost stumbling over themselves in their haste.

Logan began building the fire in the grate himself and lit several candles. Once he was surrounded by their cheery glow, he began unlacing his boots and shucked his cape, hanging it on a peg.

Logan weighed his options. All he needed was an heir, in the grand scheme of things. He wanted a partner, but he could accomplish the former without the latter, if need be. His mother told him to think out of the box. Logan wondered now if they’d been going about it all wrong, all along.

Etienne deserved a mother. As much as Logan had come to care for the boy, he couldn’t allow himself to grow too attached.

But he’d grown accustomed to his laughter filling the halls and feeling that pair of eyes watching him, so much like his father’s.

Pietro and Jean-Paul gathered together the items for Logan’s bath while Paige and Jubilee filled the tub with pails of steaming water. Once they finished, Jean-Paul floated several sprigs of lavender on the surface, filling the room with that fragrance.

The removed his boots and handed them off to the boot black.

“You were out late, sire.”

“That’s nothin’ new,” Logan shrugged.

“Er…it’s been less common, lately, your Highness. You’ve been spending more of your evenings in.”

“Last time I checked, I was allowed to leave my own castle,” Logan snapped. Pietro blanched, feeling he might have stepped on his sovereign’s toes.

“I spoke out of turn, Highness.”

“Don’t get used ta me turnin’ in early, either. I’ve got it in mind ta make up for lost time,” Logan warned him as they helped him out of his clothes. Jean-Paul wrinkled his nose at the sweat-drenched shirt and took it away.

Moments later, Logan was leaning back as Jean-Paul rubbed the knots out of his neck. He groaned in pleasure while Pietro followed suit with his feet, massaging away the soreness left from so much dancing and excess. The heat of the tub lapping at him coupled with exhaustion and the whisky made his limbs feel lax. Logan’s eyes drooped shut as he was cleansed and massaged.

Jean-Paul’s fingers felt wicked as they kneaded behind his ears and found delicate pressure points at his temples. Logan moaned in rapture, and the sound evoked a strong response in his groom, whose mouth went dry. He washed his hair next, and it felt decadent, working the foam through handfuls of Logan’s soft, thick waves.

*

Remy sat back and stared into the flames, watching them flicker and dance, throwing shadows over the walls.

In light of his parents’ determination to see him wed, he shouldn’t have pretended that it wasn’t inevitable. The scroll lay unrolled on the side table. Remy was tempted to cast it into the fire.

He had to tell Etienne. And he had to tell Logan.

Remy wondered when Logan planned to return to his chamber, but he was restless and frustrated.

The discussion couldn’t wait. Remy wasn’t going to stare at the walls until they began to talk to him.

He left, leaving the scroll behind.

He was about to head downstairs when he spotted Paige and Jubilee in the corridor, arguing over a garment. They sprang apart and straightened up, giving him their best smiles when he approached.

“Evening,” he offered. “Have y’seen his Highness about?”

“Prince James?” Jubilee said, her arched black brows drawing together. “He’s taking a bath.”

“We could have Pietro or Jean-Paul know you’re looking for him,” Paige suggested.

Panic seized Remy, followed by flames of jealousy licking over him.

“Where?” he demanded.

“Where, sire? Why, is it urgent?”

“It isn’t for you t’question why,” Remy reminded Paige. “Where?”

“H-he’s down the hall, sire, in his spare room.

“He didn’t say he wanted his things moved, but he just wanted some privacy, so he wouldn’t disturb you, sire,” Jubilee said meekly.

“So he wouldn’t disturb me,” Remy muttered through gritted teeth. He closed his eyes and exhaled in annoyance, tendons in his neck standing out with the urge to kill Logan. Or at the very least, to smack him. That would be enough…

He composed himself and faced them again, remembering his manners. “Merci, petit.” He swept away, leaving them befuddled and staring after him.

He heard their voices inside, specifically Jean-Paul’s.

“Is the water warm enough, sire?”

Logan’s rumble of agreement was sensual and content. Remy’s gut clenched and his face felt hot.

“If you lean forward, sire, I can get your back-“

The door nearly flew off the hinges when it connected with Remy’s fist. Jean-Paul and Pietro both jumped back from the tub, eyes round with surprise. They looked guilty, Remy noticed, and his glare said as much.

“Sire! This is…unexpected,” Pietro said, swallowing.

Remy wasn’t in the mood. Logan stared up at him like he’d passed gas. A bemused smile teased the corners of his mouth.

Remy had only two words.

“Off!”

“But, sire-“

“OUT!”

“Yes, sire,” Pietro said meekly.

“As you wish, Highness, let us just gather up-“ 

“Get it later,” Remy growled.

“Yes, sire,” Jean-Paul agreed quickly. Both men nearly ran past Remy, almost stumbling into each other as they backed out of the room.

Logan watched Remy as he sat up straighter in the tub, pulling his feet back now that Pietro was finished with them. He sighed heavily.

“Can’t a man enjoy his bath?”

“Depends on who’s doin’ the bathin’.”

“Just came in t’wash the dust off.”

“Dat ain’t what it looked like.”

Logan huffed in amusement. He leaned his elbows against his knees and let his fingers dangle into the water. Beads of water glistened on his bare shoulders and plastered the layer of dark hair down against his muscular arms.

Remy was in a fit of pique, and seeing Logan in a state of undress was doing unreasonable, unfeasible things to his body.

“What d’you care, Highness?” Logan knew that was the whisky talking, but it felt too good to let his tongue release the words bubbling in his chest.

Remy’s fingers twitched, then balled themselves into fists at his sides. Before Logan could say anything else, Remy whirled around and strode to the door.

He slammed it shut and bolted the lock.

“Damn,” Logan muttered. “Got somethin’ on yer mind?”

“Oui,” Remy said, a hint of warning in his voice.

“And what might that be.”

“You.”

“Wait…what?”

Remy crossed the room to the tub and knelt beside it, snaked out his arm and captured Logan’s nape, pulling him in for a bruising kiss. Remy almost laughed at Logan’s surprised intake of breath.

He was rewarded by a low moan of surprise, then satisfaction as Logan’s lips yielded, parting for him. Remy’s were soft but firm, and he dominated Logan’s mouth, that broad, sensual mouth that was made for rakish, lopsided smiles.

Logan’s hands drifted into Remy hair, stroking it and running his fingers through it as though he’d sorely missed the privilege since the day he brushed it by the fire. The onslaught of true passion and need carried him away as they shared breath. 

Nothing else made sense before that kiss; now everything was so clear and sharp that it hurt.

They broke apart just long enough to draw air, but Remy’s lips still tingled with the rough contact of Logan’s stubble. Logan’s eyes were dark with need, dilated and probing Remy’s, looking for answers.

“Why?” Logan croaked.

“Why not?” Remy mused. His hand was trembling as he released Logan, just long enough to stroke his cheek, then cradle it in his palm.

That rugged face with its charming irregularities had grown so dear to him, and those hazel eyes were now roaming over Remy and eating him up. There was an odd tightness around Logan’s mouth, and he cleared his throat.

“I…I don’t…”

“What, chere?”

There was that nickname, one Logan noticed that Remy had only started using recently. It sounded suspiciously like an endearment, but he didn’t want to press the issue, not when things between them had been so tenuous.

“I don’t know what ta say about this,” Logan uttered. “Forgive me fer bein’ confused.” His tone was accusing, and Remy admitted to himself that he had been to blame.

“D’ya need me ta help ya feel less confused?”

“You just kissed me.”

“Oui.” And he looked pleased about it. Logan’s lips still felt hot from the contact.

“But you…we…” Logan’s hand motioned limply to Remy, then back to himself, indicating an imaginary string between them anchoring them together. “I don’t suit. I ain’t what ya came here for.”

Remy sighed. “Yer gonna make dis hard, non?”

“I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Den don’t.” Remy let his fingers drift down the column of Logan’s throat and trail lazily over his nipple, already stiff from the dampness of his skin and the cooler air of the suite. Logan’s eyes shuttered in pleasure, and he arched into his teasing touch.

“That ain’t fair. I’m…naked, fer heaven’s sake, and ya just bust in…here…” Logan’s voice trailed off as Remy leaned in and barely brushed his lips over Logan’s collarbone, inhaling his scent. “Just because…yer…a prince, that doesn’t mean ya can…just do whatever…”

“Non?” Remy murmured, letting his tongue lap a particularly sensitive spot along Logan’s throat. Logan’s breathing grew choppy and harsh, chest heaving and shuddering with the sensations the younger prince was causing with gentle touches and his very, very talented mouth.

“Yer takin’ an awful lot of liberties, Highness.” Was that his voice, Logan wondered, sounding so choked and desperate?

“Chere?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me Highness.”


	12. Good Night, Sweet Prince

Summary: Continuing from last chapter, passion ignites between them. And Remy feels more regret than ever before.

Author’s Note: This is it. Contains male slash (no, really?), lemony content and very little plot value. The characters and my muses are running away from me. Don’t expect much by way of discretion.

Don’t call me Highness.

Remy’s words proved the last coherent thought that he had before Logan leaned up and kissed him, taking him by surprise this time. 

He went up in flames.

Logan’s fingers were fisted in his tunic and he nearly dragged him into the tub. Remy wouldn’t have minded one bit. The still-warm water was seeping through the rich fabric, dampening his neck and chest, and Logan’s breath was rushed out through his nose, steaming Remy’s lips. They seemed to share the oxygen between them as they greedily took from each other.

Logan’s warm, bare skin felt like paradise to Remy, still slick and damp. His hands roamed over him, mapping out the generous slopes and curves of muscle and tangling in the soft hair that Jean-Paul had enjoyed so much.

Logan broke the kiss just long enough to utter “Yer wearin’ too many damned clothes.”

“Might make it easier if ya got outta de tub.”

“Ain’t finished with my bath yet,” Logan informed him curtly, but there was lust in his eyes, and Remy couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. He leaned in to kiss him again, but Logan jerked back, holding Remy at bay with his palm pressed against his chest. Even that contact was too addictive, far too dangerous with the way he felt now.

“Ya sent away my valets,” Logan reminded him. “So I guess it’s up t’you ta make sure I get good and clean.”

“What’d ya have in mind, chere?” Remy husked.

“Don’t keep on anything ya don’t wanna get wet, Remy.” His hands slipped within the folds of Remy’s shirt again, prying apart buttons and undoing ties. Logan grew impatient with Remy’s wide belt and flung it away once he succeeded in unfastening the buckle. “Damn,” he whispered. “Look at you.” 

Remy’s sculpted, lean chest was exposed to Logan’s gaze, and he shivered when his fingertips traced the divide between his pectorals, light as a feather.

“I want ya t’look at me,” Remy invited. “And more den dat.” 

He shrugged out of the shirt, balled it up and flung it in the general direction of a high-backed chair. Then Remy picked up the discarded bar of soap. It became the instrument of pleasure and sweet torture in his hands as Logan leaned back in the tub, waiting.

“Dey missed a spot.” He dipped the bar into the water and slowly, painstakingly ran it over Logan’s chest, figure-eighting it over his pecs and over the mounds of his broad shoulders. Logan groaned at how good it felt, different than Jean-Paul or Pietro’s furtive touch because this was uninhibited and completely welcome. Remy caressed him, running his palms through the soapy film and letting them slick over the tendons of his neck and the deep well of his prominent collarbones.

Logan reached for him, but Remy caught his wrist. He turned his lips into his open palm, then darted out the tip of his tongue to taste him. Logan’s manhood jerked beneath the warm water, stiffening even further, if that was possible. He wanted to commit so much sin with Remy’s mouth.

“Jus’ lie back,” Remy murmured. “Lemme do dis, chere.” Logan obediently rested his hands along the brim of the tub.

He clenched it, hissing in a breath when Remy ran the stub of soap over his nipples. The sensations that light touch evoked pushed a low curse from Logan’s lips. Remy followed the soap’s filmy path with his fingertips, teasing and circling each nub. Logan’s eyes shuttered in pleasure. He was making him tingle, and Remy grew hard at the sight of him arching into his touch. Heat surged into his belly, radiating down to his cock with every low moan from the older prince.

He traced the ripples of Logan’s abdomen with soap and his fingers, barely grazing the rim of his navel. Logan’s hips jerked up in response.

“Remy,” he pleaded. Remy’s hand slid down his taut belly below the surface of the water, which had grown slightly murky from the soap, but it didn’t obscure the object of Remy’s fascination. Logan’s manhood lacked the ruddy tan of the rest of his body, the creamy flesh slightly rosy from arousal and the heat of the tub.

“Do ya like dis, chere?”

“Oui,” Logan said through grated teeth. Remy chuckled at Logan’s attempt at French.

“Den yer gonna really like dis,” he promised as he massaged the coarse thatch of hair at the apex of Logan’s thighs, running his fingers through it and enjoying the texture. Logan bucked beneath his hand; Remy suppressed a groan at how right he felt and the hint of dampness he felt between his own legs. He was leaking precum and he was restless to remove the rest of his clothes, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t release Logan yet. He wanted more of those needy sounds and his honest response to his ministrations.

Logan huffed in protest as Remy moved his hand away from his crotch.

His scowl was replaced by a sharp intake of breath as Remy teased the pit of Logan’s knee, tickling it with the soap. More erotic sensations followed in the wake of his touch. Remy rumbled his appreciation at the feel of Logan’s supple flesh and muscle as he stroked his thigh, leaning in to kiss him once more. Logan’s groan was restless, but he returned his passion equally. He stroked Remy’s hair, fascinated with its smooth texture and weight. Every time Remy retreated slightly, Logan chased his lips, nipping at them and sucking the plumper lower one into his mouth. Remy sighed in satisfaction, and he gave himself up to the languorous heat seeping into his body.

Remy stroked his vulnerable inner thigh with the soap at first, then set it aside when his hand was just as slippery.

“I might’ve missed a spot, chere,” he murmured against the crest of Logan’s cheek, tracing its contour with his kiss.

“I’m not clean yet,” Logan said, “and yer not finished.”

“Non. Yer right, chere.”

Logan’s eyes squeezed shut at the feel of Remy’s fingers closing around his manhood, savoring the feel of him in his loose fist.

Logan lost patience. He gripped Remy’s shoulders and practically pulled him into the tub. He needed to get closer, to take more of what he had to give. Remy chuckled at Logan’s enthusiasm, hearing the low growl over his hesitation at his cock.

He didn’t make him wait long. “Feel so good, chere.” He ringed him in his fist and slowly pumped him, enjoying his solid, velvety feel beneath the cooling water.

“Heaven help me,” Logan whispered. It felt so perfect.

Remy got wet. It was inevitable, and not unwelcome. It was time for Logan to stroke and touch him, exploring wherever he could reach from his vantage point of being seated in the tub. His broad, wet palms sliding over him, kneading him, set Remy on fire.

They lingered like that a few moments longer, drinking each other in, until Logan drew back. Remy looked confused. Logan smirked, but he was reluctant to remove Remy’s hand.

Things became clear when Logan stood up, water sluicing down his body back into the tub. Remy’s eyes devoured him.

“Sight for sore eyes, chere.”

“Ain’t exactly statuesque,” Logan pointed out. He bent down and handed Remy a water pitcher. “Get my back?”

Remy took the pitcher from him and slowly poured it down the slopes of his body, rinsing away the fragrant foam. It felt decadent, feeling the runnels of water trickling over him as Remy watched with appreciative eyes.

“I want you,” Remy husked. “Wan’ ya so badly, chere.” Remy swallowed, not an easy task since his mouth had gone dry at the sight of Logan rising naked from the tub. He was fully erect, bobbing and rosy, and his cock twitched when Remy stroked the tip.

Logan stepped out of the tub, heedless of how much he was dripping on the floor.

“If you want me, then here I am.” He closed in on him, hands closing around Remy’s narrow hips. He leaned in and breathed over his collarbones, steaming them before he tasted him. Remy leaned back, giving him better access to his throat. He shivered at the feel of Logan’s tongue lapping at his flesh, savoring him. He caressed Logan’s broad back, rapt with the sensations the older prince caused. Rational thought left him, no longer a welcome guest while Logan was loving him so capably and thoroughly.

Between kisses, Remy helped Logan divest him of his trousers and drawers, nearly tripping as he stepped out of them and kicked himself free. They grew soaked in a stray puddle of bath water on the floor, but Remy didn’t care. They drifted toward the bed. Remy automatically dropped back as the mattress bumped the back of his knees.

“Wanted t’do dis for a long time.” All he had to do was lean in and dip his face to taste the plump head of Logan’s cock, which was already bobbing and seeking the heat of his mouth. Logan gasped and shuddered at the feel of Remy’s sultry wetness swallowing him up. Remy spread his knees apart to allow Logan to stand between him. He gripped Logan’s thighs to lend him support and slowly drew him in and out of his mouth. He was satisfied when Logan’s fingers crept into his hair, then tangled in it to hold him close.

And it was good. Oh, so good. Logan tasted slightly salty and felt so supple and hot sliding into his mouth. Remy gently cupped his sac, stroking the globes with his thumb and feeling them draw up with tension and arousal. His fingertip teased Logan’s perineum, caressing the tender, vulnerable flesh. Logan was coming undone, and Remy tasted more of his precum as it leaked from the tip. He lapped it up, swiveling his tongue around the head and making Logan cry out.

Logan’s hips thrust him further into his heat. His body gave up all its secrets when Remy moaned around him, sending vibrations humming through his flesh. Remy’s hot breath misted over Logan’s belly, stirring the coarse hairs at his groin as he made love to him with his mouth.

As wonderful as it felt to let Remy consume him, Logan wanted more. He needed to feel Remy pressed against him as he had been those few nights when he woke up in his arms, snuggled protectively, even possessively, against his back.

“Rem…please,” Logan said, stroking his cheek to make him pause. “Lie back.”

“You sure, chere?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need to lay with you.” It gratified Logan to see understanding shining in Remy’s eyes and in his gentle smile. He nodded, moving back and making room for Logan to join him on the bed.

They embraced, and it felt so natural it was as though they’d always been lovers. Limbs tangled together and hands caressed as they slid against one another, surrendering to the building tension and desire between them.

Logan’s breath hissed out between his teeth as Remy rolled him to his back. He lightly bit his pulse, then swirled his tongue over the wound.

“T’ink I forgot somet’in’,” Remy admitted.

“What?”

“Jean-Paul always remembers de cream,” Remy mentioned. He leaned over and grabbed a small pot of thick, white cream that smelled slightly of rose petals. Remy uncapped it and dug out a dollop of it, warming it in his hands.

Logan laid back in ecstasy as he ran his hands over him, smoothing the lotion over the hills and planes of his body, lingering over sensitive zones and molding his muscles. He was slow and thorough, continuing to relax and arouse him in tandem. 

Logan’s eyes snapped open when Remy’s fist closed slickly around his thickness, coating him in cream.

“Remy!”

“Hope ya want dis, chere,” he said, brushing a kiss over the crest of Logan’s knee. His legs were sprawled and splayed open, revealing his treasure to Remy’s hungry gaze.

He handed the pot to Logan, who delved his fingers deeply into the cream, scooping some out. Remy straddled Logan, easing himself up until they were face to face. Remy nuzzled him, teasing him with light kisses while Logan gripped Remy’s narrow hip. Logan slipped his hand between his thighs and reached up, finding the sensitive little crease. He probed it with slippery, creamy fingers, and the pucker seemed to suck his fingertip inside. Remy hissed in a sharp breath of pleasure, eyes glazing over as Logan pressed himself more deeply inside him. Remy squeezed around him, accustoming himself to the dilation and pressure as Logan primed him. It had been so long, and Remy was undone; a low moan escaped him before he could bite it back.

“No,” Logan insisted. “Don’t try t’be quiet.” He thrust his hand in a slow, steady rhythm. “I wanna hear how this makes ya feel.” Remy’s breathing sounded choked and uneven. “I wanna see it in yer face, how good it feels whenever I do it right, Rem.” Remy’s hips bucked and thrust down onto Logan’s hand, and he carefully slid a second finger inside. They flexed inside him, feeling delightfully thick. Logan twisted and scissored them, readying him for a mating that would undo them both. The road to ruin was never so tempting. He watched Remy’s face strain in a mixture of agony and pleasure above him, and he felt himself straining as well, cock uncomfortably rigid and begging for release. Sweat glistened on their skin, and Logan couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Please,” he rasped.

“Now, chere,” Remy answered, already gripping him and rubbing the plump head enticingly against his entrance. 

“Oh, God!” Logan cried out as Remy gently pressed Logan inside, then impaled himself fully. The breath rushed out of Remy’s lungs at the sweet pain and fullness. Reflexively, Logan’s hands locked on his hips, holding him there for a moment while he drank in the sensation of Remy wrapped tightly around him, fitting like a glove. He was shuddering with the effort to keep his control. He wanted to rut inside him, pound himself more deeply into that heat, but he didn’t want to treat him roughly during their encounter.

“Yer tremblin’, chere,” Remy whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“I want you…so damned much…I don’t…want…”

“Show me what ya want, den.” Remy squeezed him in his sweet grip.

“Oh, God,” Logan gasped. “Yes. More. Please.”

Remy’s thumbs feathered over Logan’s sensitive nipples, and he raised his hips, lowering himself against Logan’s base in one fluid ripple of motion.

“Like dat?”

“Please…Remy…”

“Tell me,” he urged, and a hint of desperation colored his voice. He offered him another smooth thrust and took his hand, pulling it toward his own weeping cock. “Touch me, chere.” He groaned in pleasure as Logan obeyed, wrapping his hand around his stiffness and giving him a careful squeeze. Then he pumped him, finding a rhythm that made Remy’s back arch.

“Move,” was the only word Logan could manage.

So Remy moved.

His body was a beautiful sight, arching and rippling over Logan like a wave. With his hands splayed against Logan’s chest for balance, Remy rode him, reveling in the counter-thrusts of Logan’s hips beneath him. He listened to Logan’s voice praying, cursing him, and in the delirium of it all thought he heard the older prince call him beautiful, of all things. He lowered himself on him, over and over, quickening when he felt the signals from Logan’s body or heard the changes in his breathing. 

Any flaw in Logan’s physical appearance vanished when he was aroused, with his back arched and his skin suffused with vivid color. Remy’s favorite sound was his name cried from those lips. Logan’s blunt fingernails dug into Remy’s hips, raking his thighs; the sensations made Remy’s manhood jerk and twitch. Logan pumped him in earnest, and Remy praised Logan’s name, cried out how good he felt, how he couldn’t last much longer…

“Yes!” he hissed. “Please, chere!”

“I know yer ready, darlin’, come fer me,” Logan choked. “Come fer me…c’mon, Remy, yer ready, I can feel that yer ready, and yer squeezing me so tight, you feel so perfect, so hot and smooth…”

Logan’s words, coupled with the exquisite, frequent impact against his prostate as Logan shunted into him, again and again, flung him over the edge. His cock jerked in Logan’s hand, stiffening and pouring forth thick rivers of seed. His body spasmed as he climaxed, and his eyes were filled with wonder as they met Logan’s. They pleaded with him Don’t let me go.

It was the most beautiful thing Logan had ever seen.

As the last tremors of his orgasm ebbed, Remy fell forward, barely supporting himself. His arms felt like noodles, and he felt Logan’s labored breathing steaming his temple.

“Logan…oh, God, Logan…” he whispered.

Logan hadn’t completed his bliss, a fact that announced itself when Remy felt Logan’s manhood pulse and twitch inside him, still turgid and straining for more. Logan’s face was almost apologetic as Remy looked up at him.

“If yer tired-“

“Non,” he murmured against his lips. Logan sighed into his kiss, arms wrapping tightly around him, and Remy’s hips once again began to move. They pistoned sharply, harder, faster as he bowed his face into Logan’s neck.

“Remy!” Logan’s fingernails were scoring his back, all the way down his buttocks. He gripped Remy’s hips, pulling him down into each thrust, complete done with control. And how could he, when Remy was milking him, squeezing him, stroking his thickness with so much luscious, slick heat, that he couldn’t…hold on…

His climax barreled its way out of him, rippling and tingling over every nerve. Every muscle tensed and released and his hips jerked of their own accord, shuddering and rutting into Remy until his spasms gradually ceased.

He trembled beneath him, still holding onto him desperately, as though Logan was afraid he’d leave. From the way Remy gently disengaged himself, letting Logan’s spent manhood slip free, only to roll to his side and gather him into his arms, clearly he felt the same.

Logan was content to hold him and watch the firelight flicker over his skin, painting it golden in the near darkness of the chamber.

“Don’t hate me for my selfishness. I really don’t want to let you leave.”

“Chere-“

“I know that you have to,” he said, cutting him off. Without looking down into Remy’s face, he knew he was scowling.

“Etienne…he needs t’go back to our home. He misses Maman and Papa, and he’s already lost so much.”

“I know.”

Remy held onto him more tightly. Logan felt the faint press of his lips against his collarbone. He idly stroked Remy’s rich hair, hating that one day, he’d never have that privilege again.

Remy spoke the words that he knew spelled the end of what they had, before it had even begun.

“They’ve found me a bride.”

The silence was telling. The only response Logan gave was a deep exhaling of breath, not even a sigh. It was as though he couldn’t speak even that much. Remy’s arm tightened around his waist and he burrowed more deeply into Logan’s warmth, loathe to leave it.

So they merely stroked each other, limbs remaining tangled together as they watched the flames dance in the grate.

After several long minutes, Remy spoke again.

“Etienne deserves a chance t’meet dis bride and t’decide if she could be his maman.”

“I know. He does. I would never take that away from him. He has lost too much already, and I won’t be selfish.”

Some niggling voice inside of Remy screamed Why not? He suppressed the pain at realizing that he wanted Logan to make a demand of him in some way, to argue with him somehow, raise his voice to him, anything…

…but he just continued to hold him, lulling Remy into a stupor with his caresses, holding him so closely and with so much tenderness that they shared the same heartbeat.

As he drifted off to sleep, he didn’t hear Logan’s heart break or feel the pall that fell over him as he faced facts.

Logan was in love with Remy. Deeply. And he was leaving.


	13. Here Comes the Bride?

Summary: Remy and Etienne return home to their kingdom to meet his prospective bride. She may not be all she seems.

Author’s Note: Okay. This is the fun part, aside from the previous lemon, for me to write. I’ve been imagining how this would go from the inception of this story. I have a very silly imagination, if you haven’t already guessed. One more chapter from here, possibly with an epilogue, will follow and finish this. Thank you so much for reading and visiting me.

Etienne was uncharacteristically quiet.

“I think he’s actually grown a bit taller even over the past month,” Nanny murmured, breaking Remy’s reverie as he watched the scenery roll past.

“T’ink you might be right, Nanny,” he agreed absently. Etienne toyed with a loose thread on his breeches until Remy stilled his hand.

“Papa, I wanna go home,” he complained sourly.

“I know, petit. It will feel good, non, t’see Papa and Maman again?”

“I want my room. I want my toys,” he supplied, giving Remy a laundry list of deficiencies. “I want to go out and shoot my arrows.”

“Prince James had a shooting field. He told me ‘bout it while I was still laid up in bed a few weeks ago.”

“I didn’t know!” Etienne accused, pouting. Remy ruffled his hair.

“Ya didn’t ask him.”

“I like shooting,” Etienne continued.”

“We can do dat when we get settled in, petit.”

“It would be nice to pick back up where we left off,” Nanny interjected, eyeing them sharply over the rims of her glasses. She was purling a neat row from yarn of worsted wool to keep herself entertained on the carriage ride.

They neared a valley Remy only vaguely remembered. His thoughts wandered a dark path as he remembered the loss of his footman and groom. Remy’s return to his homeland was bittersweet.

He had his son. And if all turned out well, his son would have a mother. And Remy would have a wife.

Things would be back to normal.

*

Jean-Luc sat at his escritoire, reading a volume of literature and sipping a goblet of brandy. 

He looked up from his book upon hearing his wife’s soft voice.

“We’ve had word; Remy’s nearly out of the valley. He stopped at a small inn, and they sent a courier to give us the news.”

“Good, good,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. He reached out to her, beckoning for her to join him. Candra rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and entered their chamber. He moved his seat back from the desk and took her hand, tugging her forward until she had no choice but to stand between his parted knees.

“’Tis hardly proper, husband.”

“We’re hardly children anymore, love,” he reminded her, taking further liberties by tugging her down to his lap. Candra tsked but accepted his kiss, sighing slightly at the feel of his warm lips and the faint taste of cognac. His large hand caressed the small of her back, and she nearly purred at the gesture and how right it always felt. There were benefits to being the queen.

Jean-Luc wanted this for his son most of all, even though he would have Remy believe his focus was to secure future heirs to the throne and a wife to help him oversee the kingdom. No, what Jean-Luc desired most was for his son to have a partner, one who loved him and whom he treated as his equal, a confidante, lover and friend who knew him and accepted him fully. Royal warts and all.

Candra had believed his definition wasn’t flexible enough, hence her missive to Queen Eliza of Towering Trees. The women enjoyed a friendship via frequent correspondence, and due to more recent events, occasional visits planned out for warmer weather and better traveling conditions.

Jean-Luc acknowledged his son’s unique qualities and needs in resignation. While he couldn’t relate to his…personal preferences, he still loved Remy without reservation or condition, and he admired that his son hadn’t made any hasty decisions thus far in his choice of a second wife. His grandson deserved the best, and Remy owed it to Etienne to follow through, not to settle.

Jean-Luc regretted that Prince James would have to search further for the ideal consort, now. The arrangement had seemed so feasible before, even if it was, as Candra and Eliza so quaintly put it, “out of the box.” Despite himself, Jean-Luc liked the almost…feral seeming prince and his gruffness and honesty. He struck him as intelligent and kind, a man who neither doled out nor suffered any nonsense. If he wasn’t perhaps the most comely man, he still had a certain appeal; the women in his own court seemed to approve of him when he’d strode to the dais the day of their meeting.

Jean-Luc wondered how the two men weathered their time together under King Jonathan’s roof. Part of him was still concerned for his colleague’s lack of an heir. But there was nothing he could do about it, now. Once their sons abandoned the prospective engagement, Prince James’ status was no longer Jean-Luc’s concern. Finding Etienne a mother, however, was.

And he had. He smiled smugly at this achievement as he tightened his embrace around Candra’s waist, still narrow after childbirth and many years of marriage.

“What’s that smile for?”

“What? Nothing,” he insisted. Candra snorted.

“You’re still patting yourself on the back, aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

“Bah!”

“I’m merely a humble king looking out for my son’s best interests,” he insisted, but she saw the mischief in his eyes. She swatted him with her closed fan.

“She is lovely,” Candra agreed. “But still…I just don’t know.”

“What’s not to know?”

“Are you sure they will suit?”

“Darling, she’s turned down as many bids for her hand as Remy has, if not more. You’ve met her. She’s perfect.”

But Candra had her doubts.

*

The next afternoon, the kingdom was a flurry of activity as the servants rushed about, cleaning and airing out Prince Remy’s rooms and preparing the evening banquet. The kitchen released succulent, delectable aromas as Jeanne-Marie, his chef, rode roughshod over her scullery girls and produced dish after amazing dish in preparation for Remy’s return. Like the rest of the kingdom, she adored Remy and Etienne, and she wasn’t the least bit sorry that his engagement didn’t work out, if it meant he would remain in his own kingdom.

Soon the gates opened and bells clanged in fanfare as the imperial guard rode back into city limits, heralding the arrival of Remy’s carriage. The villagers and members of Prince Jean-Luc’s court swarmed into the courtyard, anxious for first sight of him after so many weeks of absence.

Jean-Luc stood on the dais, waiting with Candra by his side. 

“May I wait with you? It’s such a lovely day, I hated to remain inside.” The voice behind them was smooth and feminine, and very welcome to Jean-Luc’s ears. He turned and beckoned to its owner.

“Come, join us, my dear. Indeed, it is too lovely to stay inside, and it would be a shame to hide away such beauty, as well, by keeping you behind closed doors.”

“You’re too gracious, Majesty.”

Candra’s face lit up moments later when the carriage rolled up and the footman jumped down to open the door. The crowd cheered when their sovereign climbed out, garbed in his nation’s colors and looking robust and healthy. Remy’s skin was still golden from his time outdoors and getting fresh air and exercise with his host and son. He waved to the crowd, and he turned around to let his son out of the cab. The footman helped Nanny out next. She turned and bowed to Remy and took her leave, once he confirmed for her that Etienne didn’t have to return to his chamber.

Candra rushed forward, forgoing decorum, and Etienne immediately ran into her arms.

“My babies,” she crooned, kissing his auburn head and reaching for Remy, too. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you!” Her eyes were slightly damp. Remy kissed her brown cheek.

“Missed you too, Maman.”

“I’m hungry,” Etienne complained. “Can I eat lunch with you, Grand-mere?”

“Of course. Look at you, I think you’ve gotten bigger!” she teased. Then she turned to Remy. “Come. There’s someone you need to meet.” Remy indulged her with a smile, but his eyes looked troubled. “It’s all right,” she assured him. Candra preceded him to the dais, arm wrapped around Etienne’s shoulders. He, too, looked apprehensive, but he obeyed her urging to stay with her as she made the introductions.

Jean-Luc stood waiting for his turn to hug Etienne, and his grandson didn’t disappoint him, also giving him a crushing hug. He buried his face in his grandfather’s robes and was reluctant to budge, even when Jean-Luc patted him to get his attention.

“He’s a bit bashful,” he chuckled to someone standing behind him.

“Oh, there, there, I won’t bite,” a lilting voice giggled. Its direction changed, now hovering over Etienne’s head. “Hallo,” she greeted him, laying her hand on his shoulder.

“Go ‘way,” Etienne mumbled.

“Non,” Remy chided him, “dat’s no way t’greet a guest, mon fils.”

“Perhaps I should start with you, then,” she decided.

“Remy, this is Anna Marie Raven, crown princess to our kingdom to the north, Rippling Seas.”

She was well trained, and Anna Marie gave him a graceful, low curtsy with a flourish. Remy tapped her shoulder gently, and she peered up at him with dancing green eyes.

“Enchante,” he greeted her.

She was certainly beautiful, he would give her that. She rose to her feet, and Remy gave her a once-over.

Anna’s skin was creamy, fair and without blemish, and she had shining ripples of auburn hair that reached her waist. She was medium height and built on voluptuous lines, with small hands and feet. Her gown was a lush green silk, laced and belted with silver braided cord. Anna Marie had small, classic features, and her eyes stood out the most.

He didn’t have to know that she’d emphasized them a bit with makeup; that could remain her secret.

They went inside for the evening meal. Anna kept Remy occupied with polite questions about his trip, distracting him from painful memories of leaving Logan behind.

*

Dawn, two days ago

Nanny knocked as gently as she could on Prince James’ chamber door. She waited patiently for a reply. When Remy answered it, the interior of the room was still dark, except for the low glow of the flames in the grate.

“Sire, I have packed all of Etienne’s things. Jean-Paul already loaded his trunks into the carriage.”

“Merci,” he told her. She was surprised to see him so alert at the early hour, but she declined pointing that out.

“I will go see about breakfast for him, then. Would you like me to have anything sent up?”

“Non. Let Clementine know I’ll be takin’ my fast downstairs.”

“Very good, sire.”

Remy was grateful to watch her retreating back. He closed the door and returned to the bed sat back against the headboard.

Logan lay unmoving beside him, facing the wall. 

“Chere…”

“So that’s it. There’s yer wakeup call,” he rumbled. His voice was still full of sleep, and he sounded resigned.

“Didn’ sleep much anyhow,” Remy mused. He untied his robe and stood just long enough to hang it over a nearby chair. 

The bed sagged beneath Logan and he felt Remy’s warmth against his back as he stretched out beside him.

“Ya have ta get ready,” he reminded him.

“Nanny can wait a few minutes. Ain’t much point in bein’ de prince if it don’ come wit’ certain privileges.”

“Does it?” Logan countered. He felt Remy stiffen slightly, but then his lean arm coiled possessively around his waist and pulled him close. Remy’s warm breath tickled the hair at Logan’s nape and misted over his neck. He shivered.

“Yer makin’ dis hard, chere.”

“It shouldn’t be. At home, ya’ve got a future queen. Here, ya just have-“

“You,” Remy interrupted. “Please…”

“What, Remy? Whaddya want me ta say? That I’ll miss you?”

“Will you?”

Logan sighed gustily, then rolled over to face him. His hazel eyes held irritation in their depths.

“Yes, damn it. I’m gonna miss you. Satisfied?” Remy’s eyes crinkled and a smile toyed with the corners of his mouth.

“Oui.”

“Glad one of us is.” Logan reached up and cradled Remy’s cheek in his palm. “Why the hell did ya have to do this? Why…” His words died away.

“Wuz’nt supposed ta happen dis way,” Remy explained, looking just as frustrated.

“I don’t think I can do this. Rem, we need a clean break. Ya need ta forget this ever happened. When ya meet yer bride, don’t think about me.” Remy scowled.

“Sure. Lemme jus’ wipe ya right outta my mind, mec. Poof!” he gestured, waving his hand. “Dere. All gone. Who’re you?” he quipped. Logan made a noise of disgust. Remy sighed and snuggled down against Logan’s chest, taking his arms and wrapping them around himself.

“Presumptuous,” Logan muttered.

“Ya can lie dere an’ fuss at me, or ya can let me hold you until someone notices we ain’t up an’ about yet, chere. Take yer pick.”

Logan’s arms tightened around him and their legs tangled together. Remy felt the faint brush of his lips against his forehead.

“Of course Remy’ll t’ink about you,” he murmured. “Don’ t’ink fo’ a minute dat he won’t.”

“Ya’d be better off lettin’ this go, Remy.” He stroked his supple skin, noticed he was slightly chilled, and then pulled the covers over them both.

“Dat’s gonna be mighty hard,” he said. “Logan…chere, I love you.”

He heard Logan’s sharp intake of breath and felt him stiffen beneath him, caressing hands stilling.

“It’s true.”

“No, it ain’t. And I don’t want ya tryin’ ta convince me that it is.” Remy looked up and saw anger etching itself over Logan’s features.

“Chere-“

“Don’t,” Logan snapped. “Save it. Yer not gonna fill my ears and my head with this now. If ya care about me at all, yer gonna pretend those words never left yer mouth.” Remy sat up and stared down into his face.

“I can’t help how I feel,” Remy said.

“Then try!”

“I don’t want to,” Remy groaned.

“Rem…ya can’t love me. Ya just can’t. Ya can’t love me, and then leave.”

A silvery tear streaked down Remy’s cheek. Pain knotted itself in Logan’s chest as he reached up to flick it away with his thumb.

“Ya can’t just love me, and then leave,” Logan repeated sadly. “Because that’ll break my heart.”

“Desole, chere.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m sorry.”

“Desole, then. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Stick wit’ English, chere.” Logan smothered a chuckle at the barb.

“Let me know when ya want Jean-Paul and Pietro ta help ya pack yer things.”

“Didn’ bring much, remember? Never planned on a long stay in de beginning.”

“Nah. Ya didn’t.”

Remy settled against him again, and Logan’s embrace was greedy.

“I want the best for Etienne,” Logan said after several moments. “And that means takin’ him home, where he’s missed.”

“He’s startin’ ta like it here.”

“I know. But home’s where his family is.” Logan ran his fingers through Remy’s long, sleep-tangled hair. “And he needs a mother.”

“And you need a wife,” Remy pointed out. Logan squeezed him.

“I know.”

“Yer gonna find someone, mec.”

“Sure. Sure, I will.” Logan watched the shadows from the fire dance over the walls. “Plenty of fish in the sea.” Remy hated his defeated tone.

He leaned up and kissed him, just a brief stamp of his lips. “Ya will. And dat someone’s gonna love ya like ya deserve ta be loved.”

“Remy-“

Remy silenced him with another kiss which, this time, made his toes curl. Logan groaned in protest when Remy’s mouth crushed his, blatantly taking ownership of it. Then he yielded to him, allowing his tongue entry to stroke his. 

It took Logan some effort to regain his composure. “Don’t think that lets ya off the hook-“ Remy’s smile was wicked as he kissed him again. Logan’s fingers curled into his hair, cupping the back of Remy’s head and pulling him closer despite his best intentions. Damn, the kid could kiss…

Remy drew back long enough to let them both breathe. “I’m serious, Remy…aw, God!” he shuddered, back arching when he felt Remy’s lips steaming his throat, nipping his pulse. His tongue lapped his flesh lazily, tasting him and painting him with scorching heat. “No fair,” Logan complained half-heartedly, but Remy wouldn’t heed him, focusing only on how Logan’s solid body felt bucking and rippling beneath him. Remy was hard as a rock from their prolonged embrace and hearing the desire in Logan’s voice.

They moved together, arching and sliding against each other’s hardness. Every time Logan rasped or moaned Remy’s name in the dark, he imprinted his memory with the sound. Remy knew he’d never sleep again without that sound in his ears, haunting him, not when Logan felt so right against him, so perfect.

Remy possessed him with every touch, ruining him for anyone else, and Logan wanted to hate him for it. But he craved him. He longed for it to never end, knowing that it was the last time made it more precious, more vital.

Logan stroked and caressed him, kneading his long, lean back and smooth, firm buttocks.

“Oui, chere,” Remy whispered when he felt Logan gently probe the tiny pucker within the crease, stimulating those nerves and creating so much pleasure. Remy’s hips thrust against him in time with the press of Logan’s finger as he pushed inside his heat.

Logan was swiftly losing control. He wanted to stop before they went too far; he knew making love to Remy now would just cause him more anguish in the long run when they said goodbye, but he was already falling over the edge, and Remy’s eyes were full of passion and a need that was as undeniable as his own.

“Damn it, Remy,” Logan pleaded. “I don’t want to want this. I don’t want to need you.”

“Hate me if ya want,” Remy offered, “but love me now.”

It was all Logan needed to hear. He extracted his hand, making Remy moan in complaint. That changed to a grunt of surprise when Logan rolled him to his back.

“Wait-mmmph,” he moaned when Logan kissed him deeply. He stared up at him in a bleary daze. “Never mind…”

Logan found the small pot of cream on the side table and dipped his fingers into it. It felt cool and slick, shocking Remy as he eased his fingers into his opening. But Logan’s fingers warmed it as he slid them in and out, savoring how silky and snug Remy felt around them. Remy’s thighs were splayed wide open while Logan primed him, lying beside him while Logan leaned over him while he worked.

“Want ya inside me.”

“Are ya ready?”

“I wuz ready de moment I woke.” Logan’s eyes burned into him as he covered him, and Remy wrapped his legs around his waist, fitting perfectly against him.

“Take me, then. Take all of me.” Logan entered him in one smooth thrust, making Remy gasp, then moan with pleasure. He stretched and filled him, and Remy fit Logan like a glove as he moved inside him.

“Oh, God,” Logan groaned. “Remy.”

“Chere,” he whispered. “Feel so good, chere.”

“Yer like silk. Just like hot silk.” Remy clung to him, arms wrapped around Logan’s neck as he thrust inside him, taking him harder, deeper, faster. Remy felt unbelievable, squeezing and tugging on him with more friction. His erection was sandwiched between their bodies, which were growing slick with sweat. Pressure built up within Remy’s swollen, aching flesh, and Logan reached between them and grasped it, pumping him to give him relief, but it was torture. His hand was still slippery from the cream, and it was almost too much, the pleasure too intense as he gripped him, stroked him, pounded into him and hit that sweet, tender spot inside him again and again-

“Please, chere! Oh, God!” he whimpered, blunt fingernails scraping down Logan’s back as he reached his fulfillment. His orgasm claimed him, throbbing out of him. Thick, white seed flowed from his aching, turgid cock, spraying both of them.

The sight of Remy’s face, lost in bliss, and feeling his hot flesh pulse in his hand pushed Logan over the edge. Remy squeezed and milked him, and the tremors of his climax triggered Logan’s fall.

“Remy!” he cried. His seed erupted from him in long, hot spurts, warming Remy’s insides. His hips jerked and spasmed and his face was strained with the exquisite pleasure and pain of trying to make it last. “Remy,” he moaned again.

He went limp and began to tremble until Remy urged him to relax and lie against his chest. They panted and sighed, filled with awe that it could feel so intense.

“You should eat. I’ll help ya finish packin’.”

“Jean-Paul and Pietro can take care of it.”

“You sure?”

“Oui. Remy ain’t done sayin’ goodbye.”

*

But he’d said goodbye, and it nearly killed Logan.

They parted with a clasp of hands and a hug from Etienne that made Logan’s eyes water.

“I’ll miss you,” he mumbled into Logan’s vest.

“I’ll miss you, too, bub. Be good.”

“I will.”

“Take good care of yer papa. Don’t let him get scared.”

“I won’t.”

The exchange nearly broke Remy’s heart. 

Between Etienne’s despondency and his own frustration, Remy had a hard journey home.

*

Dinner went about as Remy expected, but this time, his parents were gave Anna Marie rapt attention. She chattered up a storm.

“…Ah studied in Paris for two years. Ah adored the Louvre,” she told them. “I was in awe over all that amazin’ art work. It just…humbled me.” Candra nodded eagerly.

“I can imagine! Isn’t that something, Remy? The Louvre!”

“And we went to Italy the following year,” she added. She turned to Remy. “But have you ever had French cuisine?”

“Oui,” Remy murmured absently.

*"Je trouve leurs desserts plutôt doux, mais toujours pas aussi doux que je vous trouve,” she quipped. That caught his attention.

”Vous parlez du français?”

"Oui, oui. C'est un de mes langues préférées."

"De combien de?” he inquired, impressed.

"Pas tant. Juste huit, jusqu'ici. Je ne suis pas comme aisé dans le Tchèque." Her smile was coy. "Soigner quelque soupe de tortue?"*

 

*

Etienne was a harder sell.

He’d gone into hiding again, which had Remy worried. One moment he’d say hello to him on the stairs or in the private study adjoining his bedchamber, and the next, he’d have disappeared into thin air. His absence always coincided with Anna Marie making her appearances.

Remy wanted to tell himself that it was just a matter of time, but already she’d been within castle walls for roughly a week.

Her disposition was…polite. Agreeable.

Almost too agreeable.

On Monday, they went for a leisurely carriage ride over the hills with his parents.

On Tuesday, they took in a play put on by the local villagers. Remy was bored to tears, but she clapped her hands and squealed with delight at the pageantry and colors. He indulged her, since she looked pretty when she smiled.

On Wednesday, she read to him from a volume of poetry she’d written herself. In French.

On Thursday, Anna Marie suggested they take charcoals and parchment and draw by the lake. Naturally, she didn’t object when he asked her politely to be his subject.

By Friday, Remy was going out of his mind.

He rapped on the door of the guest chamber; her chaperone answered it, giving him a bright smile.

“Majesty,” she greeted him. “Would you like to speak with her Highness?”

“Oui. Remy’d be honored to share an audience wit’ her, if she isn’t…indisposed?”

Her maid was swiftly elbowed out of the way. “Not at all! What did you have in mind?”

“Erm…a walk?”

And off they went. Anna Marie’s chaperone followed them at a distance through the garden. Anna Marie wore a lightweight cloak with a hood trimmed in ermine to shield her delicate skin from the sun. Remy was polite enough not to voice that it seemed a bit like overkill.

“Remy was wonderin’…what kinds of expectations did ya have from marriage ta Remy?”

“Expectations, milord?”

“Oui.”

“Well…the usual ones, Ah think.”

Remy’s smile faltered, and he raised one auburn brow. “The usual ones, meaning…?”

“Um. Hmm…how should Ah describe that? Well, the usual ones. The things that wives do. And that queens do.” She began to tick points off her fingers. “Attend the royal court. Travel with you. Host visiting royals here at the palace. Be in charge of my ladies in waiting-“ He stopped her. She hadn’t said anything about him yet.

“Do yer own parents have a happy marriage?”

“Ah suppose so. Mother has her own interests. Father is a good king. They’re both happy.”

She hadn’t said they were happy together.

“So what are yer own interests, if ya don’t mind my asking?” Her eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands.

“Ah love doing things like this, walking in the royal rose gardens. Ah like bein’ in charge of decorating, too.” Remy’s eyes glazed over. “Ah’ve redone mah chamber three times so far, it’s darling. Green velvet and gold silk.”

“To match yer eyes, I imagine?”

“How did you know?” She gave his arm a light swat.

“Jus’ a guess…”

“Let’s see, what else…Ah like art.”

“Making things? Painting? Sewing? Tapestry?”

“Oh, nothing that complex! I can barely mark a piece of paper with a quill. Viewing art work. Like Ah did at the Louvre,” she reminded him.

“How d’you feel ‘bout huntin’, petit?”

She wrinkled her nose. “How dreadful.”

Remy hadn’t realized he’d been keeping a list of traits a potential queen would have until she slowly erased each one the more she spoke.

They walked along for a bit, and Anna Marie began humming a simple little tune. Her voice was pleasant, for which he was grateful. At least she wasn’t shrill.

“Ah love to sit for portraits, too,” she pointed out gaily. “Ah’m a very patient person. I can sit peacefully and just enjoy the scenery and think of nothing at all.”

“Do ya have any ambitions, any dreams?”

“Oh…like what? To work?”

“Well, above and beyond your duties as queen,” he suggested. “Perhaps study something? Some charity work?”

“Ah believe in charity,” she agreed. “Ah give away mah used ball gowns and day dresses that Ah don’t wear anymore.” 

“What about feeding the citizens of Rippling Seas?”

“Well, what about it? I have no problem with anyone wearing one of mah dresses to market to buy food,” she shrugged, her tone easygoing.

Remy felt a headache building over the bridge of his nose.

He dropped the final hint. “Have ya t’ought about children?”

“Ah think about them sometimes,” she said.

“And?”

“Ah’m a bit young for them. I’ve heard they ruin your figure.”

“Um…might not have dat problem, petit, wit’ Etienne.”

“Ooo. His name’s French!”

“Oui.”

*“Quel âge est le petit chéri?”

“Il est sept. Il est très brillant.”

“Il est certainement beau comme son père.”* She stopped him for a moment. Her fingertips traced his collarbones lightly, and her smile was coy.

“Perhaps ya oughta get ta know him a little better,” Remy suggested. His face flushed slightly and he felt uncomfortable. This courtship wasn’t going as he planned.

Maybe she would at least get along with his son. Yes, that was it; children might bring out nobler qualities in her, appeal to her women’s nurturing instincts.

*

It took some effort to corner him. Etienne hid out in the stables with Julien, his uncle on his mother’s side, and Mattie, Remy’s head housekeeper. She was like another member of the family, taking care of all of them for as long as Remy could remember. She was dark-skinned like Candra, but small and plump. Her dark eyes twinkled like stars, and she had a huge, boisterous laugh.

Anna Marie was apprehensive about visiting the stableyard in her delicate satin slippers, but Remy assured her that it was well-maintained and that she wouldn’t track through anything unsavory. She still made a face at the smells of horses and their various by-products the closer they came.

Mattie’s face lit up. “Good mornin’, Majesties! Don’ ya make a pretty picture? Isn’ dat somet’in? Look almost like bro’ter an’ sister, two peas in a pod!”

“Papa doesn’t have a sister,” Etienne grumbled under his breath. He stabbed a tiny knife into a piece of wood that Julien was teaching him to whittle. He sat on a hay bale with a small dish of nuts and dried fruits beside him, which he snacked on while his uncle told him tall tales.

Anna Marie sidled up to Etienne and smiled down at him. “Ooo, what’s that you’re making, shoog?”

“I don’t know yet,” he snapped, then looked away, resuming his work with the knife.

“That looks sharp. It could cut you,” Anna explained, as though he were three.

“I’m not a baby, I know how to do it!” he blurted. Anna Marie’s smile faltered a mere fraction, but she recovered quickly. He was scowling, and Remy’s expression chided him. He beckoned to him to stand beside him.

“Please don’t be rude, petit. She’s just making a suggestion, and she was only t’inkin’ ‘bout yer welfare.”

“Okay,” he grumbled.

“Um…what kinda things do you like, sweetheart?” Anna Marie asked.

“Different stuff,” he mumbled to the ground.

“Oh. How nice.”

Remy decided they weren’t getting anywhere fast.

“How about we go inside and see what Jeanne-Marie has for lunch?”

*

The next few days didn’t yield much success. 

Remy tried to engage Anna Marie to try some of the things he and Etienne liked. They went on nature walks with Etienne’s tutor. Anna Marie tried to acquiesce, but she had limited clothing for such expeditions. Candra sent her seamstress to make her a more practical riding habit out of dark green muslin, which pleased her somewhat. They also tried horseback riding.

Anna Marie was out of practice. Her seat was awful, and she complained at length about the duration of the ride through the hills.

“Whose idea was this?”

That was one of many complaints that Remy catalogued during their trek. Her graceful gait devolved into limping when she was out of the saddle.

She complained about the unseasonal heat and the flies. She complained about the hard boulders they found to sit on while they rested. And apparently she didn’t like anything that involved sweat.

Or wildlife. Anna Marie shrieked when a small chipmunk skittered down from a tree and darted over her feet.

Etienne giggled at the sight of her leaping to her feet, crying out, holding up the hem of her skirt in an attempt to shoo it away, even after the creature was long gone.

“Easy now, chere!’ She was in a fit of pique.

“It was horrid! Wretched little vermin!” Etienne took exception to that.

“They’re tame. They’re just like squirrels. There are different kinds. I like black ones best.” Remy smiled, also remembering Logan and their journey through Towering Trees’ woods. The vision of the man amidst the forest creatures, bathed in sunlight and communing with his surroundings made Remy wistful.

Anna Marie suffered through Etienne’s nature lesson, looking less than entertained as they continued their ride. Remy was proud of his son’s effort at interacting with her.

The next days yielded more of the same.

Anna Marie tolerated tennis, as long as Remy was her partner. She nearly took out Remy’s field man with her faulty aim on the archery grounds. And she refused a hunting trip, disparaging Remy in the process.

She was an able dancer at court. That was one of her graces, at least. But she glowed almost too much beneath all the attention from visiting dignitaries and dukes, batting her lashes and smacking them with her fan whenever they bent to kiss her hand. Remy watched in irritation.

She was making his decision easy.

There was one more factor to consider.

Remy headed upstairs to kiss his son goodnight.

He was already in bed. Remy thought he was asleep until he bent to kiss his brow. Etienne’s eyes popped open, and he gave him a broad smile.

“Papa, are you scared?”

“Why?”

“That the monsters will get you?”

“Non, petit.” He stroked his son’s soft hair. “Why do ya ask?”

“In case you need me to protect you.”

“Hmmm…mighty brave of ya, mon fils.” He tickled his son’s armpits, making him squeal. “So ya t’ink Papa needs protectin’?”

“Uh-huh. And you might get lonely.”

“Not while I have you, Etienne.”

“Papa?”

“Oui?”

“Does she have to stay here?” He put strong emphasis on “she” and his features twisted like he drank sour milk.

“Her visit isn’t quite over yet, petit.” But Remy was relieved to hear his son’s thoughts, which seemed to mirror his own. “I want t’give her a chance, petit.”

“Didn’t we do that already?” he whined.

Hmmmmm…

“Etienne…what d’you t’ink Papa needs in a wife?”

“Games,” Etienne said. “She needs to know how to play fun games. She has to like horses.”

“Dat sounds nice,” Remy agreed.

“I don’t like it when Anna pinches my cheek.”

“Duly noted.”

“She smells too girly.”

Remy silently agreed.

“Anna Marie doesn’t do anything. She just sits around.”

Remy sighed, then gave in. “Oui.”

“Can we tell her to leave?”

“Dat ain’t very polite, Etienne.”

“Papaaaaa,” he whined. Remy kissed his forehead again.

“Might have t’plant de suggestion,” Remy said. He bade him goodnight and began to formulate a plan.

*

Anna Marie slept in longer than usual, which was fine with Remy. He was an early riser, and he took his fast with Etienne in the kitchen for a change, to Jeanne-Marie’s delight.

“Have another sweet roll. Would you like more juice, chere?” she asked Etienne, who had a mouthful of bacon.

“Mm-hm,” he garbled back. She laid another cinnamon bun on his plate with a flourish.

“What are your plans, sire?”

“We have a full day ahead of us,” he told her cheerfully. “I hope she’s rested.”

“Oh?”

“Oui,” he grinned.

“Oh, ho,” she chuckled. “I wager she’s had her share of beauty rest, that one.”

“Off the record, chere…what d’ya t’ink of Princess Anna?”

“Well…meaning no disrespect, sire…”

“None taken,” he said, beckoning to her.

“She’s a bit…flighty. High maintenance.”

“Dat hasn’t escaped me, chere.”

“So no match, then?”

“Don’ t’ink so.”

“You’ve had so many presented to you, sire.” She watched him with sorrowful blue eyes. He reached for her hand and kissed it with aplomb.

“Remy has all de family he needs carin’ about him right here, petit.”

Her expression was guarded as she continued her cooking, setting a pot of beans to simmer. Etienne finished his glass of juice and jumped down from his chair.

“Not so fast! What’re ya forgettin’, petit?”

“May I be excused, Papa?”

“What else are ya forgettin’?”

Etienne kissed his cheek and gave him a crushing hug. Remy swatted his tush as he ran out.

“You need a wife,” she pointed out. “He needs a mother.”

“Remy’s learnin’ t’be flexible in dat regard.”

“How ‘flexible’ are we talking, sire?”

“A mot’er doesn’t exactly hafta be a wife,” he said. “A mot’er could be a husband, if need be. If de love’s dere.”

Understanding lit up her face. “I’m not against it, sire. My twin brother, Jean-Paul, leans in that general direction.” He raised his eyebrows at the familiar name.

“Oh?”

“He is a groom for the prince of Towering Trees. Imagine that, you almost ran into him!” 

Remy nearly choked on his tea.

 

Footnotes:

For the first part of Remy’s conversation at the dinner table, here is the translation, thanks to my friend Sisterwine:

*”I find their desserts rather sweet, but still not as sweet as I find you,”* she quipped. That caught his attention.

“You speak French?”

“Oui, oui. It’s one of my favorite languages.”

“Out of how many?” he inquired, impressed.

“Not so many. Just eight, so far. I’m not as fluent in Czech.” Her smile was coy. “Care for some turtle soup?”*  
And this was the conversation from their walk:

“How old is the little darling?”

“He’s seven. He’s very bright.”

“He’s certainly handsome like his father.”


	14. Chapter 14

Summary: Remy makes his decision easily enough, but informs his prospective bride the hard way. And Etienne makes a suggestion that goes over very, very well.

Author’s Note: This is it. Just an epilogue to come, but I had fun writing this. I will be focusing on finishing Thrill soon, it’s still complex but slowly unraveling its plot for me a bit at a time. With Every Beat will be next, there is a bit of conflict that’s niggling at me with that story before I bring it to the obvious conclusion. And Odd Couple is a fledgling fic that still needs more outlining, but it will be all in good fun. Lots of fun.

I would like to thank my friends from L/R and Rendezvous for visiting and giving this story so much beloved feedback, as well as anyone else who stumbled on this story on this site. I’ve been enjoying hearing from you, as well as talking to some of you on my DeviantArt account, as well. I enjoy writing these stories borrowing these characters, so thank you for indulging my insanity.

Anna Marie sailed down the marble staircase looking particularly beautiful that morning in a wine red velvet gown trimmed in black satin ribbons. It was early in the day for such finery, but her lady’s maid took special pains to braid her hair in an elaborate style.

She beckoned to one of Remy’s butlers while he was moving a large urn of flowers. “Where is his Highness?”

“Prince Remy?” he asked politely. “He’s outside, milady.”

“Already?” she wondered. She left him, not seeing the bemused smile he wore in her wake.

She headed into the kitchen. Jeanne-Marie already had a plate waiting for her.

“Would you like me to serve you in the dining room, Highness?”

“Yes,” she replied curtly. “Will Prince Remy be joining me?”

“Actually, Majesty, he’s already out and about. He and Etienne already broke their fast an hour ago. Early risers, those two. It’s their habit, I’m afraid. Sometimes, his Highness is up at dawn.” Anna Marie wrinkled her nose in distaste. She swept out of the kitchen.

“I’ll take my eggs soft boiled,” she threw over her shoulder, ignoring the plate of scrambled eggs, fresh baked bread and soft, spreadable cheese Jeanne-Marie had already prepared.

“Yes, Highness,” she replied cheerfully. “Ugh…” she muttered under her breath.

There would be no love lost once she was gone.

Anna Marie made short work of her breakfast, in part to maintain her slim figure, but also because it was boring to eat without company at the table. Her lady’s maid greeted her when she went upstairs.

“Would you like your habit on, milady?”

“I hadn’t planned on riding today.” If Anna Marie saw another saddle in the next lifetime, it would be too soon.

“Very good, milady.”

“Fetch me my cloak.” Her maid curtsied and did her bidding, fetching one of black velvet with a red satin lining. Anna Marie felt powerful, dressed in her groom’s colors. It was only a matter of time before she was Queen Anna Marie of Shade and Sweet Water.

Her elder brother, Kurt, was due to ascend the throne of Rippling Seas once he took a bride, which was highly likely once their mother, Queen Raven, arranged a betrothal between him and Princess Amanda of the Winding Way. Anna Marie was the daughter of the royal family, so she had to marry someone of her station to live the way she was accustomed to and to attain the title she dreamed of.

Anna Marie went outside with her chaperone, ever mindful of her fine slippers. The weather was sunny but brisk, with a wind almost strong enough to blow her hood off her head.

Remy was in the stables, which she discovered to her great distaste.

“Good morning. Erm…were the two of you going for a ride?”

“Better den dat, petit,” Remy informed her cheerfully. “Ya look lovely, like a rose that survived winter.” She beamed.

“Why, thank-“

“Might wanna change, sweetheart. Dat ain’t practical for a hunt.”

“…you. Beg pardon?”

“Fox hunt,” Remy explained calmly. “The entire village will turn out for it, I’m t’inkin’.”

“But…Remy…Ah’m not much of a hunter. Ah think Ah explained that already.”

“It’s a wonderful opportunity, chere, for ya t’meet our countryfolk.”

“Couldn’t…we accomplish that just as easily with a festival of some sort, or a ball? That might ensure that I meet the right people…”

“The right people?” Remy cocked his brow. Anna Marie realized her mistake and cleared her throat.

“Ah mean…well. It would be nice to meet your countrymen in a more…civilized setting, Ah’m thinking.”

“Dere’s only so much room in the palace ballroom to host a large gat’ering. And everyone feels welcome at de hunts.”

“Well…perhaps Ah could meet them on mah next visit, Remy. Ah might be busy, what with having to consult mah seamstress regarding mah trousseau and all…”

“I wouldn’ wan’ ya ta get lonely, chere. I’d really appreciate it if ya could make an appearance. Jus’ wouldn’ be the same wit’out ya. And yer de guest of honor. Don’ wanna offend anyone wit’ yer absence, non?”

“Jeanne-Marie’s making cake!” Etienne piped up, grinning. “First we hunt the fox, but we have venison for dinner!’

“Venison?” She looked slightly green.

“Sometimes elk, too.”

“Isn’t that slightly…gamey?”

“Dat’s some fine eatin’,” Remy cajoled. She looked unconvinced.

But she smiled. A tidy, tight, sickly little smile.

*

The crowd slowly began to gather on the palace grounds. Jeanne Marie set out a late morning picnic brunch and organized the villagers who brought along various dishes, cheese and fruits. The palace bugler arrived and unpacked and polished his brass horn for the occasion. He stopped by and bowed jauntily to Anna Marie, and she tried not to wrinkle her nose at his ripe scent. He smiled at her with gappy teeth.

“Good morrow, milady.”

“Good, erm, morning,” she offered weakly.

“Tis a fine day for a fox hunt. The last one had some fight in ‘im, he did. Our lord Prince Remy caught him, trussed him up, and ‘ad the lil’ bastard stuffed and put in the Town Hall for all t’see.”

Anna Marie was aghast. “You don’t catch it and let the poor creature go?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he cackled, shaking his head at her as though she was daft.

Anna Marie retreated with her chaperone and lady in waiting to the dais as the rest of the preparations were made. Benches were arranged in neat rows and children began to mill around and shout. Some of them were from well to do families, and some of them wore rags, but all of them looked forward to the hunt, the older boys helping their fathers prepare guns and other weapons. Lures and traps were rigged throughout the surrounding woods.

Etienne was excited, too, and Nanny was having a time of it trying to keep him in check. He kept running about and getting underfoot. His uncle Julien watched him with half an eye, narrowly rescuing a stray bow and quiver of arrows from his untried grasp.

“I hate hunting,” Anna Marie hissed under her breath. “It’s so…bloodthirsty and barbaric.”

“Puts food on the table, milady,” said her chaperone.

“Might give you a chance to get to know your betrothed a bit better, Highness,” her lady in waiting chimed in, but she, too, looked uncertain and squeamish.

Shortly, the assembled villagers crowded around the dais. The king’s crier announced his arrival.

“All hail his Highness King Jean-Luc and her Majesty Queen Candra,” he bellowed with great importance. The bugler play a resounding reveille that rang out through the courtyard. Jean-Luc and Candra ascended the dais and signaled to the crowd.

“It’s a fine day for a hunt. As we partake of this day’s activities, I would like my friar to offer a blessing for safe journey and shared success!” His friar was portly and quiet; he made motions over the crowd at large, offering his benediction. The villagers cheered with good will. 

He also nodded in Anna Marie’s direction. “It is also my great pleasure to introduce our royal guest who is visiting us from the kingdom of Rippling Seas, Princess Anna Marie.” He didn’t introduce her as Remy’s bride, a very telling detail to have omitted, indeed. Anna’s smile faltered, but she waved gracefully to the crowd. The villagers were astonished by her beauty.

“Wouldn’t ya like ta change, chere?” Remy mentioned as he approached her elbow. He winked at her chaperone, who blushed and glared at him in disapproval.

“Whyever for?” She was proud of her fine raiment and had no intentions of putting on anything else.

“For riding on horseback,” he explained.

“WHAT???”

*

The next twenty minutes were a flurry of confusion and aggravation.

“I hadn’t planned on climbing into a saddle!” she explained, cheeks hot.

“But dis hunt’s in yer honor,” Remy chided her. “Surely ya wouldn’t wanna disappoint yer future countrymen? They’d be insulted if ya declined.”

“But…Remy…” Her mouth worked and she looked ready to burst into tears or smack him.

“Might wanna hop into dat nice lil’ riding habit my maman had made for ya,” he suggested helpfully, “unless ya trust the saddle ta be gentle ta yer fine gown.”

So she sailed back into the castle in a dither, fuming.

“Unless you trust the saddle,” she muttered under her breath. “Really, now!”

She hastily returned to her guest quarters and sat while her lady removed the habit from the press, smoothing the wrinkles from the jacket. She went through the pains of changing into the smaller hoop skirt and chemise, carefully guarding her hair from being mussed, rehung the cloak, changed into lightweight stockings and put on the less flattering riding boots which pinched her small feet. The process was painstaking and frustrating after taking such care before to look her best that morning.

“I hope he appreciates this,” she fumed as they swept back out.

Remy had Julien saddle a sedate looking butterscotch mare named, amusingly, Butterscotch. The horse nickered at her as she approached.

“Might wanna introduce yerself,” Remy said.

“Hallo,” she said. The horse snorted at her, flicking a drop of spittle on her habit. Anna recoiled.

With great difficulty, Anna was seated on the mare, who champed on the bit beneath her weight. Etienne was seated in front of his stallion at the forefront of the crowd. Anna Marie was jealous of the attention he gave his son, ruffling his hair and giving him a brief hug. She tried to move up a bit closer, but the mare shied and pranced slightly as she took the reins.

“Behave,” she hissed. The mare whinnied in warning. Anna Marie’s lady and chaperone looked nervous.

“Perhaps you ought not do that, Highness.”

“The sacrifices I’m expected to make for this engagement,” she complained under breath. “Once we’re wed, this kind of thing won’t be necessary. We’ll hold balls every season, not hunts. We won’t have to worry about the rabble.” Remy’s bugler overheard and gave her a sly look.

He raised the horn to his lips and blared the summons.

“HOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Jean-Luc bellowed, and the small red fox was released. She disappeared into the thicket, and the women in the crowd banged pots and pans to encourage its flight.

Butterscotch had grown impatient and decided she’d had enough. She caught the fever of the other riders careening off the main grounds and pricked up her ears. Anna felt her muscles bunch beneath her, tensing and releasing ominously.

“Oh, I don’t like - thiiiiiiiisssssss!” Her scream was loud and shrill. Her maids looked on helplessly, horrified and sending up low prayers.

It was hell on earth.

Remy was in his element, running down their quarry and leading his party after him. The wind buffeted his cheeks, and Etienne’s hands helped him guide the reins as they both gave his steed its head.

Anna Marie followed in his wake at an awkward canter, seat smacking the saddle repeatedly. “OW! Ooh! OW! Ooh! OW! Ooh!” She held on for dear life. “REMMMMMYYYYYY!”

Butterscotch dragged her through a narrow path thickly lined with elm trees. Anna Marie was slapped by myriad low branches. The surrounding villagers were no help.

“She’s a bonny huntress, she is!” one of them chortled.

“Ride lively, miss!” cried another one.

“HELP!” Butterscotch sped through a broad, deep mud puddle and splashed Anna Marie’s habit with stagnant water. “GAH!”

The fox was wily and quick. The villagers closed in on it, but it escaped into a hole, completely out of sight.

“It might be a gopher’s burrow,” Julien cried over the din of stamping hooves.

“Keep sharp,” Remy replied merrily. He was enjoying himself immensely and wished Logan was with him. He looked back, pulling his mount to a braying, rearing halt. “Princess! Ya all right?”

“No,” she whimpered miserably as Butterscotch trotted off in her own direction, carrying her hapless passenger off into the thick brush.

“Watch out for dat bush, dat’s-“

“GAH!”

“…poison sumac,” he warned, too late. The plants were overgrown and high, snagging her skirts.

“Go that way! That way!” Anna Marie ordered imperiously, swatting the horse with her reins. Butterscotch snorted indolently and stopped completely, munching on some nearby crabapples. Remy chuckled.

“Ya can catch up to us in a bit, chere,” he offered as he took off again.

She continued to cajole the horse. “Ah’ll give you a pink silk saddle if you just move that way,” she sniffled. “As many yummy oats as you can eat! Sweet green apples and carrots if you just go that way!” she hissed futilely. She flapped the reins again. No response from Butterscotch.

She called out to some of the other members of the hunting band. “Couldn’t you please help?” she pleaded.

“Sorry, yer ladyship,” one of them replied contritely. He hurried back toward her mount but Butterscotch shied again the closer he came on his own mare.

“She won’t behave!” 

“She’s a right fickle bitch, aye,” he chuckled. Anna Marie was aghast at his language and demeanor, but to his credit, he was tall and looked very strong, handling his own horse very competently. 

Butterscotch reared back. Anna clung to the saddle and screamed.

“CALM DOWN, MILADY!” he cautioned her, riding up alongside her swiftly and reaching out to grab the reins. “Shhhhhh,” he urged. “Calm down, now! You’ll upset your horse!”

“UPSET MAH HORSE!” she accused bitterly. Her face was red and blotchy, and her lips were twisted into a grimace. Wide, damp green eyes stared him down. “Your joking, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re joking.” He steadied Butterscotch with some effort.

“You’ve had a fright,” he soothed.

“I’ve had a horrible day!”

“The hunt’s still young,” he said, surprised. “Pray, continue. There’s a chance to get caught up.”

“Ah hate this,” she wailed. “This is so…provincial! And barbaric!” He looked distressed and wanted to reach for her in some way, but she was royalty, and it would be unseemly.

“Do you perhaps need some refreshment, Highness?”

“Ah need an end to this,” she sniffled. “Ah…Ah planned to accept his proposal, an-and plan our engagement…”

“He hasn’t formally asked for your hand yet?”

“He’s supposed to!” she cried. Then she straightened up haughtily. “Let’s get this over with.” She steered Butterscotch away from his mount and attempted once more to follow the hunting party, which was roughly a mile up ahead near the narrow stream.

Her seat was still deplorable.

Joseph watched her with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. Despite the unflattering nature of her predicament, she was lovely. He wondered what she was like when she was more in her own element. Perhaps indoors? He followed after her, closely but not too closely. Her dignity was taking as much of a bruising as her body.

Butterscotch’s ears pricked and swiveled, and she began to pick up the pace from her sedate trot to a canter, gradually easing into a gallop. Anna Marie held on for dear life.

Suddenly, the hunting party seemed to slow down, and they squabbled amongst themselves. Their shouts intrigued Anna Marie. 

Suddenly, she saw something russet brown dart out from the brush up ahead. It seemed to be fleeing away from them.

“The fox!”

The creature was determined to evade them, but it picked that moment to bear down on Anna and her fickle mare. “Oh, no…wretched little beast, don’t come over here!’ The men were armed with their muskets and arrows, and she was right in the path of their fire…

“NO!”

“BE AWARE!” Remy bellowed. “Hold your fire!’

“AHHHHH!” The fox darted away, but the hunting party simply flowed around her in a flood of hooves. Butterscotch reared again, overstimulated and having finally had enough.

Up went the horse’s front hooves. Down Anna Marie went, flying backward as the horse pitched her to the ground. A large bramble bush broke her fall.

Remy brought up the rear, pulling his horse to a stop.

“Anna! Chere, are ya all right?”

“Ohhhhhh…” Her voice was strangled and miserable as she struggled to right herself, but her legs were bent and thrust halfway into her chest from the awkward angle in which she landed. Each time she tried to gain purchase to get up, she fell backwards onto her rear. Her habit was slightly torn, and she had bits of leaves hanging from her frayed plaits. She looked disheveled, helpless, and at her wit’s end.

“She’s not very good at riding,” Etienne observed. Anna Marie heard him and railed at them.

“NO! AH’M NOT GOOD AT RIDIN’! Ah can’t stand horses, or hunting, or being out in the open in the bush like this!”

Remy looked at her quizzically, but she could have sworn there was a gleam in his red eyes. “Well…why didntcha say so, chere?”

She had very few words for him at that point. Speech evaded her and her mouth began working again. Her voice came out in low, hissing fits and starts. Before Remy could reach her to assist her, however, one of his couriers, Joseph, halted his horse and rushed over. He waded through the brush and held out his hand. 

“Milady! Please tell me you’re all right? Were you harmed? How can I help?”

“Take. Me. Back.” Her voice was beleaguered, and her large green eyes filled with tears.

“Back to the palace?”

“Ah…beg… of you.” He gently tugged her to her feet, and before Remy could open his mouth, he lifted her up into his arms, no longer concerned about the differences in their station. She was light as a feather to him as he carried her to more stable ground. She was hiccupping and sliding into shaky, gulping sobs…

“…and that beast HATES me, she has it in for m-me, and Ah’m sweating, and Ah didn’t get to wear m-my new gown-“

“There, there,” he soothed as he carefully helped her up onto his horse instead, then climbed on behind her. His chest sheltered her back, and she twisted her face around her shoulder to see him.

“You’ll take me away from this?”

“Yes, Highness. I will. Gladly.”

“Yer horse ain’t in de stable yet,” Remy reminded her.

“I will return to take care of that, Highness.” Julien pulled alongside Remy, hearing their exchange.

“I will take care of it, brother.”

“Merci,” he winked. Julien winked back, sighing over the sight of Anna and Joseph retreating to the palace on horseback.

*

The hunt was successful. Unlike the bugler’s earlier boast about the outcome of the previous fox shoot, this particular creature was turned loose in the forest. The villagers made merry, but they were curious about the princess’ absence from the festivities. Mead, ale, and cordials flowed and minstrels played. Etienne played with the children and sent Nanny into fits when he soiled his tunic and boots, but Remy indulged him.

Remy felt slightly guilty, but he was having such a good time at the gathering that he couldn’t regret Anna’s predicament for long. He was grateful; her constant presence by his elbow the past couple of weeks had taken its toll. Remy wanted some peace and quiet once he was back within castle walls, and he wanted uninterrupted time with Rene. Anna Marie’s visit was nearing its end, and he couldn’t be happier. He guessed that she would be, too.

*

There was a low knock on the door of Remy’s study later that night. Remy nursed a glass of whisky as he stared into the fire. He didn’t like his day’s reflections being interrupted, but he rose and answered the door.

“Remy? May Ah speak with you?” He found Anna on the other side of the threshold. She was wearing a casual muslin gown and her hair was down. She also wore no cosmetics and looked like a girl of twelve, uncharacteristically vulnerable. 

“Come in, petit.” Her chaperone curtsied and stood outside the door while Anna Marie went inside. She smoothed her skirts and sat by the hearth.

“Ah think we’re at an impasse. Remy…we have nothing in common. Ah wasn’t expecting this.”

“So you feel we wouldn’t suit?”

“Exactly. Ah feel we want different things.” She swallowed. “Perhaps Ah didn’t realize before that your lifestyle was so…rustic.” 

“Fancy dat.”

“Etienne’s a charming boy,” she continued, “but…Ah might not be mothering material quite yet.”

That’s an understatement. “Can’t try ta make ya over inta somet’in’ ya ain’t, chere.”

“Oh, Remy…Ah hope you understand, also, that…I was very impressed with a member of your household staff. His name was…Joseph?” Remy’s brows almost flew up into his hairline.

“Ya don’ say.”

“Well…I know it’s somewhat unorthodox…could you perhaps take him a message for me?”

*

And the next day she was off. Candra, Etienne and Remy breathed a sigh of relief. Anna Marie returned to Rippling Seas in her silver carriage with little fanfare, and Jean-Luc informed his court that the betrothal hadn’t taken place, leaving Remy still eligible. Prospective brides from neighboring towns cheered at this news as word spread.

But Remy was tired.

He stared into the fire as he reclined in his comfortable chamber, nursing a glass of whisky. Suddenly, without knocking, Etienne shoved open his door and wandered inside. His smile was coy as he joined his father on his bed and made himself comfortable beside him.

“How’d ya get Nanny t’turn ya loose?”

“I dunno,” Etienne shrugged noncommittally. Remy had no doubt that she was in a dither, no doubt searching high and low for him.

“Don’t give her a hard time,” Remy chided him, but he snuggled his son, kissing the top of his auburn head.

“Papa?”

“Oui?”

“I miss Logan.”

Remy sighed. “Me, too, petit.”

“So why can’t we go back and get him?”

 

*

Logan leaned over the railing of his balcony and watched his sentries pace the grounds. He picked up his pipe and filled it with his favorite, pungent tobacco and took it back inside. Then Logan held it in his mouth while he tightly rolled a leaf of paper into a long, thin tube. Logan held the end over a lit candle to borrow its flame and used the makeshift taper to light the bowl of his pipe. He inhaled the smoke hungrily and headed back outside, enjoying the cool night air.

It was late, and most of his servants retired to bed. Logan didn’t mind being alone with his thoughts now; he preferred it to the constant scrutiny of everyone in his household since Remy and Etienne returned to their own kingdom. 

Even in a crowded room, he felt lonely.

Remy’s voice haunted his sleep. His responses to his servants’ well meaning questions were clipped and grudging, and everything he saw reminded him of the chestnut-haired prince. He missed Etienne’s laughter and his penchant for mischief.

Queen Eliza had been quiet over the past weeks, deciding it was too soon to arrange meetings for Logan with potential brides. Her son needed a reprieve. Things were still too raw.

Logan felt restless and craved the feel of wind in his hair.

He stole downstairs and snuck outside, closing the front door as quietly as possible so as not to disturb Victor. He wasn’t in the mood for his continued insistence that Logan needed his services as a bodyguard. More importantly, he wasn’t in the mood for any “I told you so” speeches delivered with Victor’s characteristic dubious sympathy.

Logan buttoned his cloak on his way to the stable and found it dimly lit by lanterns on either side of the doorway. He approached his mare’s stall and greeted her with a low click of his tongue. She tossed her head and flipped her tail at him, anxious as he was for the ride.

“Where do ya think yer goin’?” Logan whipped around and glared into Victor’s blue eyes. The blond giant stood with his arms folded over his broad chest. Victor sighed. “It’s late. Ya shoulda summoned me.”

“I don’t recall needin’ to.”

“Ya always need to,” Victor chided him. He opened the mare’s stall and calmly tugged her out by her bridle, stroking her nose and long neck. She lipped at him, looking for treats, and Logan was annoyed that Victor already had slices of apple in his pockets, as though he had planned for a while to head Logan off at the stable.

“How did you know I was comin’ out?”

“Habit. Yer predictable, sire.”

“Yer a pain in my ass, Victor.”

“At yer service. Where we headed?”

Logan sighed. “The usual.”

*

Remy’s carriage rolled smoothly to a stop in front of the rustic looking inn. It was modest and familiar; he’d stopped their on his initial journey home from Towering Trees. The hospitality was genial enough; the innkeeper fussed over him and promised the most comfortable room he had, as well as the finest leg of mutton Remy ever tasted. He wasn’t entirely surprised when Remy chose to keep his hood pulled over his distinctive long hair, shielding most of his face and draping it in shadow. His host recognized his royal signet ring on his right hand and the red family crest embroidered on his tunic and assured him he would help him maintain his anonymity during his stay.

Remy finished his meal slowly and watched the patrons of the inn with amusement, particularly a table in the back where three relatively young looking men sat drinking ale. They were each striking but appeared to have little in common. They still laughed and chatted easily as though they were old friends, enjoying each other’s companionship. It made Remy envious.

Remy gradually retreated into his thoughts, immersing himself in memories. Logan’s touch infused his flesh, marking him like a tattoo. Logan’s warning to him to forget him, to forget what happened between them mocked him. How in the hell did he expect Remy to do that? Witchcraft? A magic potion? Turning back time to the moment his mother informed him of their first meeting?

It didn’t matter. Remy would have done the same thing, again and again, if he’d had it to do over. He wouldn’t deny the attraction he felt for the older, gruff prince, or lie to himself that what they had didn’t mean everything to him.

Logan meant more to him than air. Remy had fallen in love with him so strongly that it hurt.

Etienne had hugged him fiercely when he left. Remy left him with the strict injunction to obey Nanny when he was gone. His son gave his decision a firm stamp of approval. 

If Logan would have him, then his son would have a second father, the best kind a child could hope for. Remy had made his choice, but now he was afraid he’d lost his chance with his refusal. When he left Logan, he looked ahead to the possibility of marrying another woman. How would Logan handle his pleas to come back to him? There was so much wounded pride in his dark eyes mingled with heartbreak the morning that he left. Logan would be perfectly justified in sending him away with his tail between his legs.

Remy could only try.

The night wore on, and the nighttime dancing began. Hands clapped and feet stamped as men and women whirled around the floor with abandon. Remy enjoyed dancing, but he wanted to maintain his disguise and be left in peace.

The door swung open, letting in a rush of fresh, cool night air. Remy looked up from his musings and his jaw dropped open in surprise.

Logan strode inside, grinning and greeting the crowd at large. The patrons acted very familiar with him, clapping him on the back, very questionable conduct to direct toward a prince. But Logan enjoyed it, reveled in their warm greetings. He settled himself at the table in back, which Remy found ironic, sitting down with the same three gentlemen who caught his eye.

Victor brought up the rear. Remy recognized the burly guard from their excursion to the forest and he smiled. He seemed full of himself, and he made no bones about ordering himself an ale as well, despite that he was on duty to protect his sovereign.

The three men engaged in cards. Remy tapped his fingers in a hectic tattoo as he made up his mind.

He longed to speak to Logan on stronger footing, away from the crowd, but his body was already craving his presence, just to sit near him and hear his voice, to feel that warmth and virility that seemed to radiate from him.

He saw Logan turn in his seat, twisting his body around to look out at the crowd, as though he sensed someone watching him. Remy rose from his table and wove his way through the boisterous crowd. They paid him little heed.

He stood over them and watched until they acknowledged him, staring at the tall stranger in their midst.

“Hullo,” Warren greeted him. Remy nodded at the handsome blond. He was the kind of man Remy would have easily been attracted to before he met Logan, someone pretty and unattainable looking, but the blond had an arrogant air about him.

The second young man was good looking in a simpler, more wholesome way. He was medium height and weight with a boyish face and dark brown hair. His eyes were large and brown as walnuts, and they held a mischievous glint. He looked Remy up and down, unashamed to stare.

Logan’s third companion took him by surprise. He was enormous in girth, solidly built like Logan, but he was covered in lush, thick indigo fur. He resembled an enormous jungle cat, and he held his cards with paws instead of hands. His clothing strained at the seams, and he wore a pair of reading spectacles. In his own odd way, he was also beautiful. Silently Remy wondered what it would be like to hold someone like him close and wallow in all that fur.

Logan appraised him coolly, setting his cards face down on the table. “What brings ya here, stranger?”

“Have you room for a fifth?”

“Have you any coin?” the brunet asked impudently. Remy withdrew a small pouch from his belt. It looked heavy. The lad made room at the table, getting up to grab another chair.

Remy sat across from Logan, keeping his face shielded.

“Man like you with so much ta hide must be pretty sharp at cards.”

“Oui.” Logan’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and began gathering up all the cards from around the table.

“Time ta deal.” He shuffled them rapidly, breaking the deck three more times to do the job thoroughly. He handed them to Warren, and he dealt them out quickly.

They placed their bets in the pot. Logan was stoic, not the merry joker he’d been a few minutes prior. 

Hank’s hackles rose at the odd silence that fell over the table. “Perhaps we need more ale,” he suggested.

“Won’t make it any less painful when you lose to me,” Bobby piped up.

“In a minute, you won’t be able to afford ale,” Warren challenged. He laid out his cards. “Flush.”

“Damn it!” Bobby hurled down his cards and kicked the leg of the table. From what Logan could see, he only had a pair.

“Ya always cut up when ya lose,” Logan chided him. He nodded to the stranger. “Cat got yer tongue?” Remy shrugged. He reached into his pouch and threw in two more gold coins. Logan threw in his bet as well and nodded to Hank.

“Might be too rich for my blood.” He laid down his hand. Two pair. Logan snorted. 

“Ya always gotta walk on the safe side, Blue.”

Logan and their guest watched each other over the table. Remy threw another coin into the pot. Unflinching, Logan did the same.

“Come on,” Warren muttered impatiently.

“I got all night,” Logan murmured.

“Dis ain’t where I planned on spendin’ it.” Remy showed his cards. A hush went over the table.

Royal flush.

Logan’s cards fell from limp fingers. “Damn,” he muttered. “Beginner’s luck,” he accused.

“Non. M’unlucky. Cards are easy. But I lost somet’in’ more valuable t’me den gold.”

“Gonna have a hard time convincin’ me of that. Ya don’t seem like the kinda man who loses much of anything.”

“Non?”

With a flourish, Remy sat back from the table and removed his hood.

Bobby, Warren and Hank stared at him openmouthed. It was the prince of Shade and Sweet Water in their midst.

“I lost de one thing dat mattered t’me most. I realized how much of a fool I wuz. It’s time t’get it back, even if I hafta beg on my hands and knees.” His jaw was set and his hands were fisted in his lap.

Logan’s jaw was working and his brows beetled together, making him look like a pot about to boil over.

“Chere,” Remy pleaded.

Without another word, Logan pushed himself out of his chair and spun, stomping outside.

*

Logan was on fire.

Victor was hot on his heels, hurrying after him with his cloak. “Sire, it’s cold, yer gonna catch yer death!”

“Might keep me from killin’ somebody right now,” he growled. 

“It’s early yet.”

“I didn’t like the company.”

“Maybe ya need ta hear me out, anyway.” Remy caught up to them, looking out of breath. Stray hairs escaped his neat braid from bundling it under the hood. His cheeks were flushed and he looked piqued. 

“Ya have a lot of nerve comin’ back.”

“Damn skippy,” Victor added.

“Shut up,” Logan warned him. He shoved away the cloak that Victor kept trying to hand him. Vic sighed raggedly and waited by Logan’s horse, holding the reins.

“It didn’t work. I ain’t engaged. She wasn’t de one.”

“Well, ain’t that a shame. Guess ya gotta try again, eh? Plenty of fish in the sea.”

“Remy’s tired of tryin’, and it don’ change what he already knows. I’m in love already wit’ someone who’s perfect in ev’ry way, mec.” Logan snorted.

“That’s a stretch. Look, Rem, it was fun. Lots of fun. But ya can’t play at this anymore. Ya need a wife and someone who will be a good mother to Etienne. That little boy…” Logan’s voice choked up slightly, but he mastered it. “He deserves that and so much more.”

“You can give him dat,” Remy exclaimed. He rushed forward and took Logan’s shoulders in a strong grip, refusing to let him shake him off. “He loves bein’ around you, homme. Yer all he talks about since we left. The princess my parents found fer me didn’t suit. On the surface she was perfect, but inside she wuz all wrong. It made it dat much worse when I didn’t have ya ta wake up to in de mornin’, or ta hear yer voice before I go ta sleep. It wuz like I fell in dis great big hole an’ couldn’ dig myself out. I can’t sleep. Don’ wanna eat. Can’t t’ink straight wit’out you.”

“Ya can’t just sample me and throw me aside. The milk ain’t free, Rem. Ya had the chance ta buy the cow.”

“Do ya love me?” Remy asked him, ignoring what he just said.

Logan looked stricken. He slapped Remy’s hands away and turned from him. Remy’s eyes were bleak.

“Do ya love me!” he cried. Victor watched in amusement as the younger prince got good and worked up. He loved high drama.

“Go easy on him,” he muttered. Logan glared at him and then ran his hand through his hair, rumpling it in his familiar gesture.

“Does it matter? Obviously it wasn’t enough before. Ya wouldn’t have left if it was. I…I’m…all wrong for ya.” His voice broke, but he rallied, spinning to face him. “Ya killed me when ya left. I died inside, and I haven’t made it back yet. Ya gouged out this big hole in my chest and ripped out my heart.”

“Non. Dat ain’t what I wanted t’do. I wanted yer heart. But I wanted ya t’give it ta me.”

“You hurt me.”

“Didn’ mean it. I’d never do it again. Ever.”

“Don’t take me for a fool. Yer the king of breakin’ hearts. Hundreds of women, Rem. That’s what my mother said about how many women threw themselves at ya hoping ya’d choose them. Was I just another one waitin’ in line?”

“Non.” Remy laid his heart out completely. He rushed forward and took Logan’s hands this time, struggling to hold onto him, like a tug of war. “I wuz waitin’ for you, chere.” His eyes shone ominously in the darkness. “I wuz waitin’ for you dis whole time an’ didn’t know it. I loved Bella wit’ all my heart, but I never t’ought I’d find someone I’d love wit’ all my soul til I met you.”

“Bullshit,” Logan choked.

“I love you. An’ I know you love me.”

Logan’s face was still suffused with anger, but his hands squeezed Remy hard enough to punish. “Do ya know what ya’ve done ta me? Do ya know how much it hurt ta watch ya walk away? Ya made me love ya. Ya made me love yer little boy. I thought about what it’d be like ta have a family.”

“We could be a family!” Remy railed back. “Dere’s nothin’ in de rules sayin’ we couldn’ be a family! Logan, I would love you til the day I die, and I wan’ Etienne ta know you as his second father. We’ll be dere wit’ you til de end. We won’t leave. I’m here now, chere.” 

It was the phrase both of them had spoken myriad times over their sojourn together at Logan’s castle, whispered tenderly in the dark. It never meant so much to Logan as it did now.

“Ya arrogant, cocky bastard,” Logan grated out. Tears pricked at his hazel eyes, but he didn’t let them fall.

“Yer hardheaded and stubborn. Just knock some sense into you, mec. We have a good t’ing right here, if ya jus’ reach out an’ grab it. We can be hurt, on our own, or be happy toget’er. So damned happy. I’ll be so good t’you and love ya right. I’ll love ya so hard.”

“C’mon, fer cryin’ out loud, give the poor bastard a break,” Victor snapped. Logan glared at him over his shoulder. Victor sighed and retied the horse’s bridle to the post. He strode over to them. “Look. Don’t make me knock yer heads together. Ya came ta drown yer sorrows here after pissin’ an’ moanin’ about how ‘oh, he left me, he broke my heart, I don’t know how I’ll ever care like that again.’ Boo-stinkin’-hoo. He’s standin’ here in front of ya. He’s grovelin’, that close ta kissin’ yer boots. Reach out for the poor bastard with both hands.”

“Yer oversteppin’ yer boundaries,” Logan reminded him.

“And yer overlookin’ the obvious. The kid loves ya. Right, Highness?”

“Oui.”

“I ain’t gonna stand out here all night waitin’ on the two of ya ta make amends. Accept his apology,” Victor demanded.

“Ain’t I yer prince? Don’t you work for me?” Logan asked incredulously, but Remy was holding on to his hands so tightly they ached. He looked back up into his face. Tears were flowing freely down his cheeks. “Damn it, don’t cry…”

“I love you,” he sobbed miserably.

“Damn it,” Logan swore. His shoulders heaved in resignation, and he gave in, finally pulling Remy into his arms. He groaned in relief at the solid feel of his familiar weight against him, his herbal cologne mixing with his natural scent that was so intoxicating.

“The hoops I hafta jump through ta get anyone ta listen ta me,” Victor sighed. Logan’s breath hitched ominously and his fingers were digging into Remy’s back. “Shit. Here come the water works…”

Victor wisely walked back into the inn and waited inside the doorway for the two princes to have their moment. “It’s about time,” he murmured before ordering himself some mead.

*

Logan threw some coins at the innkeeper and barked that he needed another room for the night. He handed Victor the heavy brass room key.

“Good night,” he told Hank, Warren and Bobby.

“You’re leaving?”

“No. I’m turning in.” Remy waited a few feet back, watching him with hungry eyes. Logan collected his cloak and waved his hand dismissively at the table and the pile of coins in the center. “Drinks are on me.”

“So you’re done with cards for the night?” Warren asked needlessly.

“I ain’t gonna hafta gamble again another day in my life.” They didn’t know if he was speaking literally or figuratively. Logan clamped Remy’s hand in his grip and practically dragged him after him from the lounge.

Up the stairwell they stumbled, unable to take the steps fast enough. They hurried around the corner and Logan crammed the key into the hole, fumbling with it.

“C’mon, c’mon!” he growled. Remy covered his hand with it and helped him turn it, and his heat sent a jolt of electricity through Logan when his chest pressed against his back.

“Lemme in, chere,” he whispered into the side of his neck. “Wan’ you so bad.”

They nearly fell inside. Logan kicked the door shut and his hands shook as he lowered the bolt on the door and turned the lock. Remy was already at his back again, and his hands crept around his waist. “God, chere…missed you…” His breath was hot against his flesh, steaming his neck before he lapped his supple skin. Logan groaned and leaned into the contact, so hungry for it. His hand reached up to cup Remy’s jaw as he kissed him and tangled in his long, beautiful hair. His hands stole up to his chest and he felt Logan’s heart pounding beneath his palm. Remy painted the crest of his cheek with kisses, moaning at how good Logan tasted. It had been too long, he wanted all of him at once and knew he wouldn’t be able to get enough.

Remy felt so right, wrapped around him and whispering his name in his ear. He nibbled and sucked his earlobe, setting Logan ablaze. Heat coursed through his belly and pooled in his loins. His hips bucked back against Remy, and he felt the hardness pushing against his crease.

“Wan’ you outta dese clothes, chere. Wanna love ya down again an’ again.”

“Take me,” Logan rasped as Remy’s fingers pried apart his shirt buttons, then snuck inside the flap to caress his hard little nipple. He leaned into Remy’s lips, turning his mouth up to his for a savage, hungry kiss.

Remy tugged his shirt, nearly ripping it, and popped off the last button by accident, but he was so eager to feel Logan’s warm bare skin beneath his hands. Logan gasped sharply at the feel of his palms sliding over him, memorizing the contours of his muscled back and firm pectorals. Remy nudged him, leading him with butting of hips toward the bed. Logan waited there, craving more of Remy’s ministrations, and Remy didn’t disappoint him. He trailed kisses over the broad, high slopes of his shoulders and licked a path down his spine. Logan quivered and shuddered, sucking in gulps of breath at how good it felt. While Remy wooed him with his mouth, his hands worked on the fastenings of Logan’s trousers.

“Please,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Wanna see you,” Remy answered him with so much passion. “So beautiful…”

“I ain’t beautiful,” Logan argued, but he groaned when Remy gently bit the globe of his ass once it was bare, then licked the wound.

“Y’are, chere. Ya break my heart lookin’ at you. Ya drive me crazy. And ya taste so good.”

“Remy,” Logan pleaded with him as he shoved his pants down around his knees. He drew in a breath at how appetizing Logan looked from behind, all sculpted muscle. He had a gorgeous ass, round and ripe, the skin satiny smooth and taut. Remy traced the curve with his fingertip, making Logan shiver. He teased the small dents where his glutes joined his lower back.

“So beautiful,” he repeated, bending down to his crease. He breathed over it, then tasted it. Logan cried out in shock and pleasure.

“Aw, God,” he moaned. Remy’s hands stroked the columns of his thighs, memorizing their broad, tapered shape as he dragged his tongue over the divide of his ass. Logan was vulnerable and sensitive there, and Remy’s mouth felt incredible, doing things that were turning him into goo. The cords of Logan’s neck strained, and unintelligible sounds were leaving his mouth. His knees buckled when the tip of his tongue probed his snug hole. He groaned and breathed into it, dilating him to explore him more intimately. His tongue swiveled and pressed inside, stroking his sensitive channel and tissues.

“Remy…” Remy’s only response was a long groan of pleasure and satisfaction as his tongue now plunged deep, almost stretching him. The change in pressure felt so good, and Logan’s manhood jerked and throbbed with need. Remy nudged Logan’s feet slightly more apart and reached for his dangling sac. He cradled it in his palm and gently stroked it, enjoying its heaviness and hairy texture. Logan was so masculine and virile, and he was exactly what Remy wanted.

Logan fell forward, planting the heels of his hands on the bed. His hips thrust back, pushing his ass into Remy’s face, urging him to work him faster. Remy was floored by his responsiveness and the way he trusted him in such a vulnerable position. “I want you,” Logan said hoarsely.

Remy withdrew his mouth and replaced it with one long, slender finger, pushing inside Logan in one neat thrust. He twisted his hand in sharp, quick corkscrew motions, plunging inside to the hilt. Logan’s cries were guttural and harsh; he tried to bite them back and his breathing was choppy.

“Gonna make ya call my name, chere,” Remy promised huskily. Then he leaned forward and engulfed one of Logan’s balls in his mouth and gently suckled. Logan came undone, changing from merely aroused to a cursing, grunting, bucking creature with no other awareness of anything but the man behind him telling him how sexy he was, how much he wanted him. The thrusting and lapping of his flesh in concert pushed him toward the edge. Remy added a second finger, thrusting more slowly, deeper, seeking out the sweet, hidden little knot of nerves. Logan made a small, choked sound when he found it, and his eyes shuttered in pleasure.

Remy throbbed for him, erect just from laying his hands on his lover and hearing him moan and curse. A pearl of slick fluid beaded up in the tip of his cock, and Remy was painfully swollen. He craved Logan’s heat, and he couldn’t wait anymore.

“Tell me ya want it, chere.”

“Take me,” Logan demanded roughly. He turned and gazed back at him over his shoulder, and his eyes were dark and desperate. “Now.” Remy kissed his way back up his broad back and grasped Logan’s hips. He squeezed them briefly, enjoying how supple they felt. 

“Yer sure?”

In reply, Logan turned and kissed him, lips hard, rough and demanding, and he swallowed his small whimper.

The rest of Remy’s clothes landed randomly about the room as Logan stripped him quickly, almost ruthlessly. They settled back on to the bed, and Remy covered him, stretching along the length of his hard body.

The kisses weren’t gentle. Teeth nipped and suckled, and cheeks, jaws and necks were scratched by each other’s stubble. Logan’s hands worked at Remy’s long plait, undoing it and letting the long fall of hair fan out over both of them. It felt luxurious, running his hands through it and brushing it back from Remy’s handsome face.

Remy shunted and ground against him, his rock-hard pelvis nearly bruising Logan. The friction was decadent as their erections bobbed and rubbed together in a choppy rhythm.

Remy was holding him, devouring him, drinking kisses from his mouth, but it was time to claim him. “I love you, James,” he grated out. He sounded so desperate, and his skin was breaking out in a sweat from the effort to maintain some control.

“Don’t ever leave me.”

“Never, chere.”

Logan’s thighs spread and he lifted his legs up, flexing his knees to expose his nether regions, cock standing at the ready. His taint quivered when Remy lightly stroked it with his fingertip. Remy reached down and stroked himself, gathering up the droplets of precum and slicking them over the plump head of his cock. He leaned in and pressed himself against Logan’s tight, sweet pucker, teasing him. Logan whimpered and his breath caught.

Remy hooked Logan’s left knee over his shoulder and then pressed himself inside, sheathing himself neatly in Logan’s snug warmth. Logan’s features twisted briefly in pain, and he exhaled a shuddering breath. Remy reached for his cock again and primed Logan, pumping him as he began to thrust, distracting him from the discomfort. Logan grew accustomed to the stretch and the feeling of fullness soon. The friction suddenly outweighed the pain, and the unpleasant burning ceased as Remy’s cock continued to leak its essence, slicking his passage. He found Logan’s prostate, and he pounded into it over and over again. Logan’s teeth clacked together with the force of Remy’s pistoning hips slamming into him. Even though his voice was still tender, Remy’s expression was desperate and his possession was almost uncontrolled.

“Damn it, chere,” Remy grunted. “So damned good…” Logan’s walls squeezed him in a tight, loving grip. It felt amazing to push himself into that heat, to be joined so completely to this man underneath him. Logan’s hands fisted in the sheets and his head was flung back, his chest arching up toward his lover.

“Harder,” Logan gasped. He wanted all of him. The pleasure was building within him, swelling and pulsing and pushing him over the edge.

Remy broke first, unable to bear the sensations assaulting him in concert with Logan’s voice crying his name. His climax thundered through him, making his body spasm and buck. Waves of pleasure flowed over him, and the resulting jerks and thrusts of his hips brought Logan to his own fulfillment. He stared up at Remy helplessly, mouth agape on a long, rough cry. His seed streamed from him in long, thick spatters that landed on them both, while Remy’s drenched his insides.

Moments later, they laid tangled together, listening to each other’s breathing. Logan felt sore but good, and it felt so right to have Remy’s head tucked under his chin so he could occasionally bury his lips in his soft, lush hair and enjoy its scent. Remy half-dozed, lulled by his long caresses and thudding heartbeat. A bleary smile was plastered across his face.

“I probably shoulda let ya grovel a little longer,” Logan murmured. Remy snorted and poked him in the ribs.

“I’ll grovel for ya in de mornin’, den. T’ink ya’ll enjoy dat, de way I do it.” He lightly kissed Logan’s collarbones, lapping up a hint of his salty sweat. Logan groaned in contentment. Remy raised himself on his elbows and stared down into the face he loved so much. “In de meantime, ya gonna hafta settle fer beggin’. Marry me?”

“That’s what’s been naggin’ me this whole time,” Logan told him. “What does that even entail?” He cupped Remy’s jaw in his broad palm, letting his thumb feather the corner of his mouth.

“Technically, neither one of us is de bride,” Remy reminded him. “So it’s an equal partnership. We share de same title an’ equal control of our kingdoms. Ain’t no dowry involved. An’ we confirm de union in de royal court in front of witnesses.”

“But then what?” Logan hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. Things changed now that they were on the brink of jumping in with both feet.

“We meet in de middle. Literally.” He grinned down at him and kissed him. “We build a home on de border between Towering Trees an’ Sweet Water.” He punctuated each sentence with a nibble of his lips, making Logan chuckle. “We raise Etienne. He has equal contact wit’ de grandparents on both sides of de family.”

“Remy…do ya want more kids?” Logan looked worried, and he gathered him against him again, unwilling to let go of him until he got a feasible answer.

“Let’s cross dat bridge when we come to it. Have ya ever considered a surrogate mot’er, or even a consort?”

“I ain’t gonna share ya.” Remy met Logan’s sudden scowl with a smile.

“Remy has a son. If it came down to it, mec, Remy’d share you if it meant dat ya could be a papa. But just your body. I could never share yer heart, chere.”

“I belong ta you, body an’ soul, darlin’,” Logan said.

“I know dat. But Remy also knows dat ya’d sire some of de most beautiful children de world has ever seen if yer heart led ya ta want dat. I’d love any child ya brought into dis world as much as m’own son, because it’d be a part of you.”

Logan’s eyes pricked and his voice seemed to clog in his throat. “Damn you, Remy,” he grated out. His hand snaked around the back of Remy’s neck and he pulled him down for a consuming, desperate kiss.

In the adjoining room, Victor had retired for the night, done with the revelry downstairs. Even though some of the maidens tempted him, he was still technically on duty, since the prince was off of palace property, and he had to be ready to protect him at a moment’s notice. This was next to impossible if there was a warm, willing body in bed beside him.

But his musings were interrupted, yet again, by the sound of throaty groans and curses through the too-thin walls.

“Shit…they’re goin’ at it again?”

Frustration and even a hint of envy made him bury his head beneath his pillow, trying to block out the sound of the headboard next door banging against the wall. He heard the prince of Sweet Water crying Logan’s name and sobbing in two different languages how good it felt to let him take him.

“Guess yer done beggin’, kid,” Victor muttered. “Can’t a guy catch a break? Sheesh…”

*

The next day, the princes returned to Towering Trees and entered the castle hand in hand, looking radiant and jubilant. Jonathan and Eliza greeted the news with a bit of confusion, but relaxed and perked up once Remy explained that his prior betrothal fell through. As soon as they sat down at the dinner table that night, they were already chattering away a mile a minute about preparations for their union. Eliza joked briefly about them being joined in wedded “patrimony,” which made both men snicker. It was one of the nicest dinners Logan could remember having with his family, and it felt right, seated beside his groom and holding his hand.


	15. Epilogue

Summary: Ya don’t wanna know.

Author’s Note: I had to add this. Yes, I’m demented. But everyone in this story had to have a happy ending.

Victor was bored.

It had been three months since the wedding, and the castle at Towering Trees was frustratingly quiet. Victor missed the sound of Logan’s bellowing throughout the halls and their jaunts to the inn. Occasionally he visited their new stronghold on the border for a game of cards, but it wasn’t the same as having a regular partner in crime-slash-ruler to carouse and hunt with on a regular basis.

But he was glad that Prince James was happy. Sickeningly so, from what he’d witnessed. Remy had practically domesticated him, and Logan threw himself full swing into being a father. He took his husband and stepson hunting and sat with Etienne during his lessons, enjoying his presence and his energy. Logan had more of a spring in his step, seeming younger now, somehow, than he was before he met Remy.

Their family crest combined the shields of both kingdoms and flew high on the palace banners of midnight blue, their new kingdom’s colors. The surrounding grounds were lush and verdant, teeming with wildlife. Logan never felt more at home.

Victor found slight consolation in Logan’s friends at the inn, and Hank, Bobby and Warren happily made room at the card table for him when he was off-duty. But Victor still felt lonely, perhaps even restless. He didn’t know how to cure it.

He begged off on another round of whisky and poker, holding up his hand.

“Don’t tell me you’re done in already?” Bobby accused, cocking one brow.

“Headed upstairs?” Warren asked. He smirked, knowing that usually involved Victor bringing up some “company” to his small, favorite room that he usually rented when he was away from the castle.

“Nah. I’m out. I’ve had enough fer tonight, bub.” He clapped him on the shoulder once he rose, and he shook Hank’s furry hand as he extended it to him.

“Safe journey, my friend.”

“Have I ever failed in that, bub?” He raised his hood over his long golden hair and headed out into the night.

Victor gave his stallion its head and galloped home, working up a healthy sweat and enjoying the night breeze. He caught the scent of rain in the air and reveled in it, particularly the hint of ozone that preluded an impressive storm.

*

“It isn’t fit for man nor beast out there,” Pietro muttered as he drew back the curtain and watched the long arcs of white-blue lightning streak across the sky. Jean-Paul jumped at the sound of another round of thunder. He shivered.

“I hate that,” he snapped.

“Why? Afraid?” Pietro mocked. Jean-Paul reached out to clout him, but he was interrupted by a loud knock at the front gate.

“Who on earth could that be?” Pietro followed him out of curiosity as they hurried from the main dining room where they had been polishing the silver.

The banging turned into pounding, flustering them. “Give me a moment!” Jean-Paul called out. He fumbled with the bolt and jerked it back, and Pietro opened the heavy door. They stared aghast at Victor as he stood dripping and leering at them from the other side of the threshold.

“Gonna get outta the way and let me in?”

“Goodness, you look a fright,” Jean-Paul tsked, stepping aside and watching him stride into the hall. 

“Why? Afraid?” he threw over his shoulder. Pietro smothered a laugh. This time Jean-Paul did clout him.

“You’re dripping!” Pietro screeched, heedless of the fact that it was late and that his voice would carry. “Don’t go one more step.” He ran out and gathered several towels from the kitchen while Jean-Paul wrestled with Victor for his sodden cloak.

“You’re absolutely filthy…oh, my God, and you positively reek!” Jean-Paul fanned his nose and grimaced. Victor grinned.

“I’m smellin’ like roses, bub. Gotta be somethin’ wrong with yer nose.” Victor was rank with sweat that the rain did nothing to cleanse away, and there was a healthy dose of whisky on his breath. Jean-Paul snatched his cloak away from his body even as Victor’s hands batted him away. The cloak did little to shield him from the elements, telling Jean-Paul he no doubt rode his horse til he was lathered. His trousers and most of his shirt were soaked. 

The white cotton was transparent and clung to his ruddy skin, outlining his broad muscles. His nipples were hard little beads poking out the fabric, and Victor’s face and neck were flecked with bits of mud. There was even a leaf or two tangled in his hair, and his long braid was thoroughly mussed.

He looked so desirable that Jean-Paul’s mouth went dry.

Instead, he launched into full nagging mode, grasping Victor’s large, knobby elbow. “Out! You won’t stand here and ruin my nice floors!” He led him into the kitchen, and Victor was surprised at Jean-Paul’s wiry strength.

“Hey!”

“Those boots are atrocious,” he snapped. They were dripping mud and looked like they hadn’t been polished since Victor owned them. The leather was cracked and almost worn through over the toes. Pietro was clucking and fussing behind them, mopping up the rain water and mud in Victor’s wake.

Both valets shoved Victor into a chair by the hearth. Pietro promptly knelt and worked Victor’s boots off, grimacing at the dirt that now streaked his tunic.

“Ugh,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re a piece of work, Victor.”

“Thanks,” he shrugged. “Whaddya got ta drink in here?”

“Are you cold?” Jean-Paul’s blue eyes looked concerned.

“Nah. Just wet.”

“Clem’s gone to bed,” Pietro pointed out. “It won’t take but a minute to fix you something.” He began moving about the kitchen, taking down various ingredients and unwrapping a plate on the large pine table. Pietro set out a few vanilla cookies and poured some rum into a small pot. Soon the scent drifted through the kitchen.

“I usually ain’t one fer rum.”

“Try it. It will warm you up.”

Victor allowed their fussing over him, almost enjoying the attention. 

Like Victor, Jean-Paul and Pietro were also bored, and slightly lonely without Logan’s presence in the castle, as well as Prince Remy once they’d grown accustomed to him being there. It went beyond simple lust; in their own solicitous, fawning, nagging way, they adored Logan. His absence was keenly felt.

Victor’s arrival provided an opportunity and a distraction. He was an absolute mess.

“You should really get out of those clothes.”

“M’fine fer the moment.”

“Your hair is dripping, too. What got into you, Victor, riding out so late?”

“Can’t tell the rain not ta come,” he argued, shrugging. Jean-Paul sprinkled some cloves and sugar into the rum, lending it a delicious scent, then dropped in a dollop of butter. He poured it into a large tankard and pressed it into his hand. Victor mumbled thanks over the rim and took a long gulp.

“Hm,” he nodded, giving Jean-Paul a vestige of a smile. Victor never smiled at them, only leered. “Thanks.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.” Suddenly he was aware of Pietro by his feet, rubbing them briskly with a towel. “What the hell are ya doin’, Petunia?”

“Your poor feet are blue.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“Your feet are important. You’ll catch your death, or an infection.” Jean-Paul nodded in agreement.

“Wet hair isn’t helping any,” he added, taking another towel and massaging his hair without permission.

“Hey!”

“You’re filthy,” Jean-Paul tsked. “Finish your drink so I can wash the cup.”

“Bossy,” he muttered, but Victor grudgingly did as he was told. It felt strange, having Logan’s former grooms’ hands tugging and pulling at him, since Victor was only a member of Logan’s staff himself and had no title. But it was late, and who was he to object if they wanted to see to his comfort?

And to his surprise, it felt very good. Pietro was kneading his toes and the tender ball of his foot.

“Your toenails are deplorable. And you have callouses a mile thick. When’s the last time you used a pumice stone?”

“Are ya kiddin’? Do I look like a guy who gives a damn about bein’ silky smooth, bub?”

“It doesn’t hurt to pretend you’re civilized once in a great while,” Jean-Paul scolded with a sigh. “Really, now. You don’t even take care of this lovely hair.”

“It’s gorgeous, but he’s right,” Pietro chimed in. Jean-Paul had deftly unbraided the wet mass, and it expanded as he ran his hands through it. He loosened tangles and tugged out the fragments of leaves, then experimentally kneaded the bones behind Victor’s ears with his thumbs.

Victor made a sound suspiciously like a purr. He leaned back slightly in his chair and closed his eyes. “Do it again,” he grumbled. Jean-Paul raised his brows, but he complied.

And it was addictive. Victor was always so…hard and unyielding, but his body was almost pliant beneath their hands. His breathing was slow and deep, and his eyes shuttered in pleasure as Jean-Paul kneaded his shoulders and neck.

Victor became slowly aware of the effect their attention was having on his body as tension leaked out of his muscles and his skin warmed beneath their touch, despite his damp clothing. The kitchen was warm from the fire in the hearth, and Jean-Paul had set several kettles to boil for a bath.

“You’re a big ruffian,” Jean-Paul tsked.

“Part of my charm.” One icy blue eye cracked open, peering up at Jean-Paul, then closed again as he leaned back against him, head butting up against his chest.

Jean-Paul became hard as a rock. His skin flushed and he had a hard time controlling himself from wanting to take liberties.

He shook off his daze and croaked “Perhaps we should draw you a bath in the tub room. I hate to drag all those pots upstairs and disturb anyone.”

“My room’s down here,” he reminded them. “I’ve never lived upstairs.”

“Oh.” Pietro hadn’t even thought of it. During their comings and goings, they seldom saw Victor in any room of the house except the kitchen or great hall. Mostly they just heard his voice teasing them or bellowing like a beast.

They lit the lanterns in Victor’s room and stoked up a fire in the grate, filling the Spartan quarters with a cheery glow. The flames threw dancing shadows across the walls. To his credit, the chamber was surprisingly tidy; the bed was made with the covers pulled so taut that you could bounce a coin off them.

Victor was yawning like a lion, preceding them into the room. Pietro and Jean-Paul hauled a large stock tub into the room, deciding it would fit Victor’s needs more adequately due to his size. The regular one would have left his long legs crammed to his chest.

“Were your parents large people, Victor?” Pietro asked.

“Why?”

“Just…wondering.”

“Nah. Ma was a tiny thing. Daddy wasn’t even yer size.” Pietro and Jean-Paul weren’t short by any means, both of them roughly six feet tall and built on lean lines, but Victor dwarfed them by a full head.

“I can soak these tonight and finished them tomorrow,” Jean-Paul suggested, nodding to his wet clothes. Victor shrugged as he began to undo the buttons. “Here. Let me.” Jean-Paul’s hands captured his, stilling them. He gently lowered it and deftly opened each fastening, revealing his broad, hard chest. “Goodness…you’re enormous…”

He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud. He looked up and found Victor staring at him with a strange light in his eyes, blond brows beetled.

“Ya don’t hafta worry about it, I can do it.” But he didn’t stop him from shucking off the sodden shirt, drawing the sleeves down his brawny arms. The thin layer of blond hair was plastered against his skin, downy in the firelight. Pietro began to fill the tub with the kettles. The room began to fill with steam, and he added sprigs of lavender and a packet of chamomile to the water, infusing the room with its soothing fragrance.

“Suit yourself,” Jean-Paul said. But when he turned away to help Pietro, he heard Victor grunt in annoyance.

“It’s…stuck.” His fingers were shriveled from the rain, and not as sensitive when working the tighter fastenings on his trousers.

“Er…need any…help, Victor?” This came from Pietro. His hand drifted hesitantly for his waistband. “Do you mind?”

He reached for the buttons and deftly pulled it through the hole with a slight jerk. Victor’s abdomen tensed, muscles stiffening, and Pietro snatched away his hand. He was going to turn away again, but Victor called him back.

“They’re wet. They’re practically stuck ta me.”

This time both men hurried forward, Jean-Paul allowing Victor to wrap his arm around his shoulders for balance while Pietro tugged the stubborn pants down from his hips.

Lust crept over them like a rash. Pietro worked the slacks down his tapered, well-muscled thighs that seemed to be a mile long and covered with more of that golden brown hair. His calves were round and bulging with rangy muscle, giving way to his large, broad feet.

He stood in the white, flimsy drawers, damp too, since he’d been soaked through. Pietro urged him to step out of the trousers while he laid them across a chair to dry.

“Wanna grab these, too, while yer down there Petunia?”

“Don’t call me that,” he chided him, but he was blushing furiously as he grabbed the hem of the drawers and pulled. Jean-Paul bent to help him, and they worked them off, exposing his masculine glory.

Which was…considerable.

Victor peered down at them and smirked. “Whatsamatter? Cat got yer tongue?”

“Oh.”

“No.” But they were eye to eye with the most impressive specimen of manhood they’d ever seen at such close range. 

Jean-Paul and Pietro made no secret of their preferences, and they both took lovers discreetly and roomed together at the castle. But they were close from the moment that they met and bickered like an old married couple. They became lovers out of convenience at first, then out of a quiet, deep respect and admiration. Jean-Paul was stubborn and volatile with a hot temper, while Pietro was smooth and sometimes calculating, yet also vulnerable. They complemented each other.

But right now, Victor’s phallus bobbed slightly once freed from hiding. His chilled flesh was already erect and swollen, jutting out from a generous nest of golden brown, crisply curled hair. The long vein along its underside stood out in sharp relief, and the head was plump and looked smooth as silk, begging to be touched. It was alarmingly close to their mouths…

“Let’s…bathe you.” They rose shakily to their feet and watched him smirk, turning to step into the tub.

“Hot,” he hissed, but once he eased himself down, the heat enveloped him and drove away the chill on his skin. “Ahhhhhhhhhh…” His groan was throaty and content. Jean-Paul and Pietro swallowed. “Soap?”

“Huh?”

“Soap,” he asked patiently, shooting them a sharp glance. “Ya know, that funny smellin’ stuff ya wash with that gets rid of the dirt?”

Jean-Paul tutted under his breath and retrieved a slightly soft lump of soap.

“Smells girly,” Victor remarked as he handed it to him. He promptly handed it back.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothin’. But I want ya ta do my back first.”

Jean-Paul was just about ready for a heart attack. Gingerly he dipped the bar into the water, barely brushing Victor’s arm. He rubbed it in his hands and began to massage his shoulders again, letting his hands slide over his hard muscles more easily. Victor groaned with need, a throaty, rough sound that made heat flood Jean-Paul’s crotch.

“You’ll need your hair washed,” Pietro mentioned casually, eyes burning with envy. He retrieved it and poured some into his hand as he approached the tub. He began to distribute it through Victor’s already-damp hair, using a small pitcher to pour a stream of water over the sodden locks and build up more lather. Jean-Paul was surprised that Pietro was up at the head of the tub next to him for a change, but he made room as they worked on their new pet project, making Victor smell more civilized, or at any rate, less like a bear in heat.

And they grew lost in him. His skin felt so satisfying to stroke, supple and covered with its layer of fine blond hair in all the right places. His nipples peaked into hard, pinkish beige little buds that tingled with a rush of sensation every time they so much as nicked one with the soap. Jean-Paul’s eyes were dark with passion.

“Is the water still warm enough, Victor?”

“Yeah,” he rumbled in contentment. He was still making those throaty purrs and his body was growing deliciously limp. His muscles had been slightly sore from his hard ride home, but the heat drained away all the tension and stiffness, leaving behind only the caressing warmth and lapping water. 

The lather slipping through his hair felt erotic to Pietro, making its length slick and easier to comb his fingers through, and he sighed as he rubbed Victor’s scalp.

“Damn, ya’ve got magic hands,” Victor rasped.

“Er…who does?”

“Both of you. Mmmmmm…feel like I’m gonna fall asleep.” His blue eyes peered up at them and Pietro scraped back a random puff of foam from his forehead before it could slip into them and sting him. “Where’d ya learn ta do that?”

“Just years of practice,” Jean-Paul murmured, using the pitcher to pour stream after stream of water over his flesh, rinsing away the soap.

“Don’t ya think it’s kinda womanly, doin’ the job that you do?”

Pietro snorted. “We can’t all be royal bodyguards like some people.”

“It’s not womanly, it’s nurturing,” Jean-Paul corrected them both. “Some of us are born with traits that make us good caretakers.”

“Caretakers, huh?”

“Yes,” Jean-Paul sniffed. “Lean forward. Time to rinse.” Pietro didn’t want the shampoo to come to an end, and his entire body was aware of Victor’s responses to their combined caresses, but he didn’t want the burly guard to turn into a prune, either.

“Seemed sometimes like ya were doin’ more than ‘takin’ care of’ the prince, bub.” Jean-Paul’s cheeks turned scarlet.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I saw the way ya looked at ‘im,” Victor accused.

“Come now, lean forward,” he interrupted impatiently. What Victor said stung him.

“He’s a royal. It wouldn’t have worked out. Ya work for him,” Victor continued. But he obediently leaned his head down to his chest. Both men poured pitchers of water through his tresses, and it gleamed like dark, molten gold in the firelight.

“Watch your eyes, Victor,” Pietro admonished, but he yelped as Victor suddenly whipped his head back, letting his hair snap over his head to slap his back. The motion sent a wave of droplets everywhere, splashing both valets.

“Ack!” Jean-Paul jumped back and hissed in annoyance. “Was that necessary?”

“Naw. Fun, though.” Pietro had caught the brunt of it and was holding his hands out from himself as though he’d fallen into a pig trough. He looked thoroughly disgusted. “Now ya’ve had a bath, too.”

“Not the way we would have liked,” Jean-Paul muttered.

“How would ya have liked it, then?” The question took them aback. Jean-Paul licked his lips. Pietro cleared his throat.

“Er…how would I have…?”

“How would ya have liked takin’ a bath?”

“The…um…usual way,” Pietro stammered.

“Like it hot?”

“What?” They were both flaming with embarrassment and desire, and it was getting harder to be objective and finish their chore. Pietro busied himself with getting Victor a towel, while Jean-Paul moved toward the armoire to find him a clean shirt to sleep in.

“Ya didn’t answer my question.”

“Question?”

“How do ya like it?”

The question was absolutely loaded, and both men knew it.

“We’re not the ones in the bathtub, Victor,” Jean-Paul said shakily, trying to compose himself. “Who’s bathing who?”

“That brings up somethin’ else.” Victor rose from the tub in one fluid motion. Both men’s jaws hung open as he revealed himself to their gaze. “Who wants ta finish bathin’ me?”

“You don’t want to catch a chill,” Pietro said, but his eyes were riveted on all of Victor’s rosy, clean naked flesh that gleamed as it dripped back into the tub in melodic trickles. 

“Ain’t no point in dryin’ me off til ya finish washin’ me down, is there?”

Jean-Paul gulped. “No.”

“Then get over here and finish.” Jean-Paul dropped the shirt from nerveless fingers while Pietro laid the towel over a chair. Numbly, their feet carried them toward the tub and the source of their torture.

Victor broke the lump of soap into two ragged pieces. He shoved one of them into Jean-Paul’s limp grip and held up the other for Pietro to take from him. “Wash me,” he growled. “Everywhere.”

It was like being handed the moon. No furtive contact, no hiding the effect he had on them, no worrying about whether not things were going too far too fast.

“Victor,” Jean-Paul whispered. “You want…”

“Everything,” he grunted. “Every way I can have it.”

“Everything,” Pietro repeated breathlessly. His hand shook as he caressed Victor’s abdomen, light as a feather with his fingertips. Victor shivered at the sensation, and his cock jerked in response.

“Everywhere,” Jean-Paul murmured, laying his palm over one of Victor’s pectorals and gently squeezing it. 

Victor had other plans. He grabbed his Jean-Paul’s hand and slid it roughly down his abdomen, down to his cock. “Grab it.”

“Oh, God…”

“Clean it.” He guided his grip, making him ring it in his fist, which was already slippery from the soap. “Yeah. Oh, yeah…”

“As you wish,” Pietro said, continuing to marvel over his magnificent body and trace its contours. “Victor, you’re a very handsome man. Did you know that?” He brushed his lips over the crest of his shoulder.

“Show me how handsome, then.” Pietro gasped as Victor roughly cupped his nape and leaned down, crushing his mouth in a kiss that was almost brutal. He brought the flavors of rum, sugar and whisky to his lips, and Pietro moaned back into his mouth. He slanted his mouth over his again and again, tongue dominating his until Pietro’s knees grew weak. 

Then Victor himself moaned at the wicked things Jean-Paul was doing between his thighs. He had begun soaping him thoroughly, turning the thatch of soft, wiry hair nearly white with foam. Suds dripped from his balls back into the tub in little puffs, and his cock was turgid and slick as Jean-Paul lovingly, thoroughly jerked him off.

“Tell me what feels good. I want to take good care of you, Victor,” he whispered, leaning in to breathe hotly over his nipple. He gave in to the urge he’d had ever since Victor strode dripping into the castle and took it gently between his teeth, laving it and suckling it in concert with the pump of his hand. Victor’s skin tasted like slightly salty ambrosia to him, and he wanted more.

Victor let Pietro up for air and was satisfied to see his glazed, rapt expression. He reached down and groped the valet through his black trousers. He cried out and arched into it, bucking into Victor’s hand. While he did that, he turned to Jean-Paul and took him in an equally savage kiss, making him “MMMPH!” in surprise, before moaning and whimpering into it.

“Strip.” His command was terse, and the look in his eyes was determined. They fumbled with buttons quickly and awkwardly until Victor took matters into his own hands. He stepped out of the tub and peeled Pietro out of his shirt like a banana, scattering buttons everywhere. He was about to protest, but Victor silenced him with another of his rough, satisfying kisses, and he acquiesced, letting him jerk off his belt and rip open the fastenings of his pants. He was shocked at the feel of his own naked flesh, but the chamber was warm from the fire and Victor was sending him up in flames.

Jean-Paul was already half out of his shirt, before Victor turned to him and took the same liberty, kissing and groping him as he worked him out of his remaining clothing. The suds were cooling between his legs, growing clammy, and he was ready to get back into the tub. With company.

“Get in,” he ordered, strong-arming both in. They tripped their way in, splashing water over the brim, but they were no longer worried about getting the floor wet at that point.

From that moment, they just lazed and played. Both men re-soaped and rinsed Victor as the water began to cool, being more than thorough with his slopes of his glutes and the tender crease. He gasped and choked his approval as Pietro tenderly stroked the tiny pucker inside while Jean-Paul continued to pump his cock, kissing and licking the rest of Victor’s body dry.

Victor knocked them off balance, dragging them down into the water. They yelped in surprise, but neither of them objected when he pulled both of them against him, one on either side, and took turns kissing each of them senseless. Jean-Paul gasped as Victor’s thigh thrust up against his manhood, encouraging him to ride it.

He was the first one he dragged onto his lap. Victor’s hands molded his flesh, and he groaned at how smooth Jean-Paul felt. There was a narrow trail of dark hair leading from his navel to his crotch, but the rest of his skin felt like silk and was a burnished gold. Jean-Paul was classically handsome. His hair was black as midnight with wisps of white that fell over his brow. His features were beautifully chiseled, like a sculptor had carved a masterpiece in flesh. Pietro thought the contrast between the guard and his lover was striking to behold, and it was turning him on to watch Victor manhandle him, to hear his voice filled with rapture as he cried out.

“How do ya like it?” Victor asked him again as he bit his neck. Jean-Paul whimpered and threw his head back to give him better access. His beautiful cerulean eyes closed in pleasure as Victor’s hands moved him, grinding them together to create delicious friction.

“Rough. He likes it rough. He makes this sweet little sound when you first take him,” Pietro said hungrily, as though Jean-Paul were sitting on his lap, instead. He ran his palm down his back, kissing his shoulder blade to make him shiver. “And he feels so good, Victor. Whether he’s taking me, or I’m inside him, I can’t get enough of him.” Jean-Paul was touched to hear himself so described. Pietro was affectionate with him, but never effusive; sometimes he was even gruff if he felt embarrassed. But his lips were trailing over his nape, breath misting over him and making the tiny hairs there stand on end.

“Is that right?” Victor ground him more firmly against himself, loving the way his hard, narrow hips felt in his hands. Jean-Paul’s eyes snapped open when Pietro reached down and teased his crease, gradually probing his tiny pucker. It was invitingly snug when he pressed the tip inside. He knelt up on his knees behind Jean-Paul and joined Victor in turning him into jelly.

He’d never been pleasured by two lovers before, and both of them felt different but incredible. His cock throbbed as Victor pumped him, buffeting him against his own member while Pietro’s finger was plunging in and out of his sensitive opening, twisting and dilating him slowly to let him savor the stretch and mild ache.

“Get him ready for me.”

“I want to see you take him.”

“You’re next.” Pietro stifled a whimper of anticipation as he caressed Jean-Paul from the back, finding his nipples and tweaking them. He added a second finger to his ministrations, stretching Jean-Paul more aggressively to prepare him for what he knew would be an uninhibited joining.

He felt his hand nudged away and he came into contact with Victor’s cock as he lifted Jean-Paul from his lap and then sheathed himself inside him in one hard thrust. The heat of the water had relaxed his muscles, making him pliant and ripe for Victor’s penetration. He felt crammed full and invaded by Victor’s considerable length and girth. His voice came out a strangled squeak.

“My God, you’ve killed him,” Pietro muttered, but he stood corrected as Jean-Paul slowly began to move, riding Victor in a slow, easy rhythm.

“Victor,” Jean-Paul whispered. “Oh, Victor…”

Victor was no less affected. It felt like paradise inside him, as Jean-Paul squeezed and milked him, sliding over his flesh like satin sheets. He leaned up and caught his lower lip between his teeth, stealing hot kisses as Jean-Paul began to slam down over him.

“Feel so good,” he rumbled. His hands squeezed Jean-Paul’s ass, fingernails lightly raking his cheeks. Pleasure built inside him, both from the man on his lap softly crying his name and his partner staring at them both with hungry eyes.

Pietro reached between them and grasped Jean-Paul’s hardness and pumped it. His hand was slippery; Victor joined him, and the sensation of two hands groping him, pulling at him heightened the sweet pressure of Victor’s flesh hitting Jean-Paul’s prostate. He came in harsh jerks, eyes and mouth agape on a long, ragged cry. His face was a mask of pain and pleasure and he’d never looked so beautiful to either man.

“Damn it, I wanna see ya like that again, darlin’,” Victor mused. His smile was wicked, but he was still erect. Concern filtered through Jean-Paul’s haze while Pietro sampled some of the slick seed that dribbled over his hand behind him.

“You didn’t…?”

“I ain’t done yet. Neither are you.” He winked back to Pietro. “You, either.”

Neither valet remembered who climbed out of the tub first. Victor watched in amusement as they returned to him with towels and briskly scrubbed him dry, leaving his skin rosy and sensitive to the touch.

They stumbled onto Victor’s bed, huge to accommodate his size. They enveloped Victor, devouring him with hands and mouths, moaning and grunting over how good he tasted.

He laid back against his elbows and watched as they each traced the length of his cock with their tongues. It spasmed and bobbed up, almost kissing them back as they teased it. The sensations made every drop of blood pool in his hard flesh, and he throbbed for release.

“Yeah,” he rasped, “so good. So damned good…” Jean-Paul hummed his approval when he engulfed the head of his cock and sucked while Pietro lapped at his sac. His cock leaked drops of pearly fluid, flavoring his skin with a musky saltiness. Victor’s thighs splayed wide to allow them both easier access. It was the best blowjob he’d had in his life.

It got better when Pietro slicked his finger through the accumulating wetness dripping down his cock and pressed his finger into Victor’s crease. The pressure coupled with the suction was pushing him over the edge. Victor was growing lost in their passion. It was almost too much to process, but he didn’t want them to stop.

Jean-Paul wasn’t expecting Victor to haul him away from his erection by the arm, pulling him up until they flush beside each other.

“Victor…mmmmph….” Jean-Paul didn’t object to the languorous kiss. He looked dazed.

“Take a rest.” He obediently collapsed and caught his breath. Pietro automatically monopolized Victor’s assets, feasting on him, drawing him into his mouth to the hilt. He shunted over him in long, greedy strokes, humming with satisfaction and letting his voice resonate through Victor’s flesh. Victor arched up and gasped at how good it felt. Jean-Paul lazed beside him and suckled his nipple, running his fingertips over his rippling abdomen. Victor’s hand was tangled in Pietro’s silver hair, urging him to move faster.

“Make him ready,” Victor hissed. Jean-Paul kissed him again, nipping his shoulder before he descended to the foot of the bed.

Pietro felt Jean-Paul lift his hips so that he had to pull his knees under himself, nearly on all fours. He never broke his connection with Victor, taking care not to nick him with his teeth. Then his eyes went round with pleasure when he felt something hot and wet pushing at his vulnerable opening. Jean-Paul thrust his tongue inside him as deeply as it would go, stroking his passage and bathing it in heat.

He butted back against his partner while he serviced Victor. Pietro enjoyed it when someone else took control once in a while, and he often trusted Jean-Paul with his pleasure. And Victor…he was so…forceful. He craved the feel of Victor inside him, longed to feel his hardness invading him after seeing Jean-Paul fall apart.

A slender finger probed him, stretching him, thrusting inside and stroking his sweet spot. Pleasure jolted through him, and it changed the tension and angle of his mouth over Victor’s flesh. He was desperately gulping at his leaking fluids and struggling to keep up his fast pace.

“Yes!” Victor hissed. “That’s it! That’s it, darlin’. That’s right…” He was still massaging the back of his head and pushing him down, thrusting up into his mouth. Pietro took every inch eagerly, stroking Victor with the walls of his throat.

Two fingers snaked inside him, scissoring and stretching, twisting inside him. Pietro was wild and desperate for either one of them to claim him. Jean-Paul was the one who tugged him back by the hips. Victor’s cock popped loose from his mouth, and he looked dejected and confused. Victor growled at him, also annoyed.

“He’s ready.”

“Says you,” Pietro accused.

“You’re ready. Because I want to watch him take you.” Victor’s smile was wicked.

“When ya put it that way, then, fine.” Victor hauled him back up toward the headboard and flipped him onto his back.

“Oof!” Then, “Oh…oh…Victor…” Victor bent to taste him briefly and tested his snug sheath with his finger, glad Jean-Paul had gone such a good job priming him. He felt tight but pliant.

“Yer mine,” he growled. He hooked Pietro’s long, tapered legs over his shoulders, lined himself up with his entrance and impaled him. His lover cried out raggedly in what sounded like pain, but he raised his hips to meet him, squeezing his length. “Yeah,” Victor rumbled. “Aw, yeah, darlin’…feel so tight, like yer made for it.”

“He is made for it,” Jean-Paul agreed. “He can’t get enough of it. Especially when you do this.” Jean-Paul groped between them for Pietro’s shaft and stroked it. It pulsed and throbbed in his grip, and he couldn’t help taking a taste.

Pietro’s climax loomed close as Victor pounded into him and while Jean-Paul teased his body, stroking and suckling him and pleasuring all his senses. He longed to be fucked raw, and Victor fit the bill. His thick fingers dug into his thighs as he rutted and slammed into him, and sweat ran down his brow. He looked powerful and sexy like that, and the sight of him doing him such sweet damage pushed him over the edge.

Victor’s seed flooded him, drenching his insides with sweet, slick heat. His tremors and jerks sped Pietro to fulfillment, and Jean-Paul carried him the rest of the way home with one last, hungry bob of his head. Jean-Paul’s eyes rolled shut at the feel of Pietro’s seed flowing over his tongue as he came in several long bursts.

They all lay together like a litter of pups. Both valets stroked Victor and occasionally brushed kisses over his shoulder or collarbone and twined their fingers in his thick hair.

“We should gather up the bath,” Pietro pointed out.

“Do you feel like it?” Jean-Paul retorted.

“No,” he admitted. “I can’t move.”

“Just gonna hafta fill it back up again anyway in the mornin’,” Victor tsked. “Got all dirty again.”

Both valets smiled in the darkness. It was nice to be needed.

 

FIN.


End file.
